Music That Burns
by Musique et Amour
Summary: You are more than just a student to me, were the words that changed a peaceful night of lessons and reading. Her discomfort provoked his anguish, which he releases through his music. Christine, drawn, is unable to resist coming to him.
1. Things Left Better Unsaid

"Sleep well, Christine,"Erik murmured gently.

It was a childlike desire to be read to that had lessons cut short. Just like the night prior they again indulged in the tale of _Arabian Nights. S_he listened avidly, enthralled by the multitude of voices he used for the characters; always different, it was a range that she had never heard before. During the touching moment she drew closer, reading over the words as he held the book precariously within his long, thin fingers. Within the library's harem pit they laid; side by side among the wealth of pillows, her head rested upon the bend of her arm and one of her curled locks coiling around a singular bony finger. He brushed it back over her shoulder gently, watching her features as a fleeting smile crossed his own. She was still awake -- though he didn't notice -- and quite aware of the little ghost of a touch to the round of her shoulder. She shifted lightly, tilting her head to flatten her left cheek against her left forearm, causing the arch of her neck to be bared almost desperately for his eyes and fingers -- if he dared. Her skin looked so much more pure with all those coiling locks falling haphazardly about her. She looked like a little doll set gently to sleep. But the pulse against her throat was racing.

Moving his hand back when she shifted, his breath held a moment, awaiting for her to awaken and catch him so close. He had gathered the strength to do so before, give a bare caress along her skin, and with his cautious graze of fingertips over her hair, he was working up that courage again. It was as if she was made of delicate crystal, and one wrong touch would shatter everything. Closing his eyes to half lid, he brought the path of the slitted gaze to the line of her neck, and shifting the angle of his hand, he tucked his fingers just beneath her hair, fingertips gliding in a faint touch as he brushed the locks aside to be eased over her shoulder, further exposing the pale flesh.

They both knew very well that 'one wrong touch' could change everything for the good, and quite possibly shatter it in the process. Though over the past few days fear had been stirred into her mixed perception of Erik, there was still an undeniable throb that pulled her to him in moments like these where it was just the two of them and no outside disturbances. It was only his world and her being brought into it without any knowledge of what he expected from her other than what they had been before the boundaries were crossed beyond the mirror's frame. Christine could not deny whatever it was that Erik inspired in her, but it was a shame she couldn't understand it either. A soft sound came forth from her lips, goose-bumps tickling down her spine. She wanted to open her eyes and look at him but didn't, afraid that he would stop. Still, at the back of her mind, she believed that she should before her pulse drowned out the silence and gave her away.

"I wish you could see...," he spoke gently, trailing off intoa hushed whisper that was no louder than released breath, then silenced. His fingers hovered just above her cheek before he gave a stroke that never actually touched the skin, but once he had reached her jaw, it changed. The smooth pads of all four fingers followed the length of skin and bone until he came to the point of her chin, then in an ascent the paused just beneath her ear. Shifting his gaze to her back again, he studied its pattern of movement. As long as it remained languid he had no worries. Her light sound concerned him a moment, but when it had passed he moved his hand again, gliding along the side of her neck slowly with the back of his fingers.

Christine didn't understand. Not only did she lack understanding of his broken comment, but the way he was hesitant while Raoul's friendly touches or kisses were sure. She found herself longing for Erik's touch and reproaching herself for such raw passion at the same time --unable tocollect her confused emotions into one concrete feeling for him. Did she enjoy it or not? Damn it? Uncertainty and that tingle of anxious fear bubbling in the pit of her stomach brought the hint of tears to her eyes as she opened them slowly even though it might shock Erik that she was awake at all and _allowing_ this. No, almost willing him on with the dip of her right shoulder so that her neck nearly bent into his touch. Looking at him, she studied his face in silence before a word escaped.

"Why?"

He hadn't anotion she was awake when she dipped her shoulder, easing into the faint, unsure touch. He took advantage of her movement, and made up the distance between the path of his fingers and the bending of her neck. His eyes had been so focused upon his hand that he didn't even notice when she opened her eyes.It was when she spoke that heflinched and yanked his hand back so quickly one would think he was burned. Why? Why what?Why was he touching her while she was sleeping? That was the first thing that came to his mind as he shifted back, bringing a shamed distance between them, all the while inwardly cursing himself.

"I .. didn't mean.. I am sorry."

Watching him flinch and draw away, she sat up slowly, touching the spot on her neck where his fingers had made cool contact with the heated flesh. Feeling utterly miserable for causing such a reaction, she shook her head slowly, brows furrowed. "No..." But she couldn't say _don't be sorry_ or _it's all right_ because it was strange, and she really didn't know what to say except to continue her question. "W-Why...or what did you wish I could see?" It came out half-stuttered and half-breathed, almost afraid to go on. It wasn't her intention to frighten him away, and now that he wasn't touching her, every inch of her body throbbed desperately for those ghost-like caresses.

_She was awake the whole time.._ He grimaced inwardly, but outwardly he looked away from her to the ground at his side. Having stopped within his retreat, he released a pent breath slowly, then turned his eyes to her again, searching her face. He had to think of some type of lie, _something_. Or find a way to distract her toward a different path. But there it was; that question settled right before him like some glaringly bright beacon, and for a moment he felt trapped. "That.." What _did_ he wish she could see? He had been so vague with that comment that now he was struggling to come up with just one thing. "That you.." Another pause and sucking in a slow breath, he straightened his shoulders and looked her dead in the eye, as if somehow that would allow him the strength he needed.

It harmed more than helped.

She wished he would just go on, would just suck in a deep breath and _tell her_ whatever he needed to say. But he looked so helpless, and Christine felt, for the second time, that their roles had been reversed. Offering the beginnings of a tired smile she shook her head, as if to keep him from going on any further if he didn't want to. "I'm sorry. I was only nearly asleep ... and I couldn't help hearing it." The smile widened, though a bit sadly as she sat up. Her fingersstill tracedalong the places he'd touched, absently trying to draw the heat into them again, to raise the same goose-bumps. "You don't have to answer..." she added, just in case he didn't understand that she wasn't forcing him.

She wasn't moving away from him, or making a hasty retreat into her room. It confused him a bit, but at the same time he was utterly relieved. And perhaps that's what gave him that extra little urging that he needed. "That you are more than just a student to me," he finally stated. It wasn't exactly what he had in mind, but to profess something so deeply? It was surely asking her to run away from him. Get away and go to that perfect looking young man, the Vicomte. He was a monster, and something so hideous as him shouldn't even dare to have such feelings for someone so beautiful.

It was not what she was expecting, and yet it answered everything to her. The question Raoul asked her on the day she'd returned from Erik came to her then what did Erik mean to her? What was she to him? And Erik wished she could see! Instead of flushing, her cheeks went white as she looked away from Erik, anywhere but into the eyes that seemed to see through her. Eyes that had briefly closed in pain as it felt as if his heart had dropped right into his stomach. Whatever she felt for him, she couldn't get past the horror that she had seen; his face. She wasn't sure if he was expecting an answer, but she could not give one. Stealing another glance up at him, lips parted wordlessly, her fingers dropped from the place on her neck, shoulders drooping softly. It was all she could do to release a few heavy breaths, tempted to tell him about Raoul and then veering away from it so quickly, lips forming words she would never say. So she was silent.

Wetting his lower lip, he gathered the book and pressed to a stand so he could put it away. If only he could retract those words, all of them, the touch as well. It had to be pathetic, how desperate he was for any sign of being wanted, any affection. _You are changing, Erik_, his conscious whispered. _So strong and deadly, tamed by beautiful eyes and a lovely smile. _Sliding the book back into place, he returned to the pillows and began quietly collecting the cups and saucers to be placed back upon the silvery tray.

Turning her face away from him as he moved to get up, she wrung her hands together gently, biting at her lower lip in childish anxiety. She couldn't very well tell Erik that Raoul had kissed her, that she loved him and had stayed with him in his chateau for the past four days. And yet, that would be the very best thing to do, to tell him everything and get it out in the open so their could be no more misunderstandings, no more confusion about what either of them meant to the other. But it wasn't so cut and dry. And she had already done much worse by saying nothing for so long that the words refused to come out. Erik had drawn near again, and all she could do was raise her own cup to place it on the tray for him, next to his own, looking up in hopes that she might meet his eye, though it would do no good, and it would be better if he kept his gaze averted.

Pausing within his reach for her cup, he pulled his hand back so he wouldn't touch her, then lowered his hand to the side of the tray. Instead of pushing up immediately, he looked upon the cups, then after a moment's pause he turned his head to look over toward her. _Just.. shove it away. Act like nothing happened. There was no touch, you didn't just lay your heart on the line.. all is well. _No matter how many times he repeated these words to himself, it was hard to believe. But he urged the corner of his mouth in a subtle smile. "Perhaps some dinner?" Pulling one hand from the side of the tray he shifted the cups and pot closer to the center to make sure they didn't shift and tip too much when he would rise.

It was back to square one between them, where he avoided all contact with her until it was absolutely necessary. No more lingering, innocent touches. There was something about the hesitant way in which Erik touched her -- or attempted to touch her most of the time -- that made her miss it already. If only she could figure out what she wanted without being guided into it. Shaking her head, she couldn't even manage to smile at him. For a long moment, she said nothing, unable to even give him any kind of answer as to why she didn't want dinner. And then, finally, "I'm very tired," was pushed past soft lips, her eyes searching his. If he only knew it was best to guide Christine into things, to give her that little push she needed, and then she would be fine. It was what Raoul did when he tipped her head up to kiss him that first time on the roof of Notre Dame.

He gave a nod to her explanation, and glancing briefly to the tray, he turned his gaze to her again before pressing to a stand. "A hot bath would do you well," he began, stepping out of the pit and off of the cushions. Carefully balancing the tray he leaned to pick up the candle. "It will relax you. Good night, Christine." There was barely veiled hurt within his voice. After confessing some of what she meant to him and having her pale in what he believed to be horror, he had a right to be hurt. Resting the candle upon the piano as he passed it so she could see, as well as blow it out when she left, he continued forth, exiting the library to enter the living room so the dishes could be taken to the kitchen.

_Showers, dinner, and tea_ -- was that all Erik thought of? But he did have every right to be hurt, though Christine didn't wish to hurt him any more than she wished him to leave at that moment. Starting up to her feet, she stood silently as he moved away and disappeared into the main room and then the kitchen, she drew her fingers to her lips to hold in whatever noise she was about to make -- sob or scream, it would never be known, but both would have been in frustrated confusion. Toeing on her slippers, she moved to the piano and blew out the candle with a shaking exhale, watching through the dancing smoke to Erik's dim shadow coming from the kitchen. Unable to quite leave, she did make a few steps forward to the threshold of the door, only to stand there, watching his shadow move in and out.

Placing the tray upon the counter, he removed the cups to settle them into his sink, and pouring out the last of the tea, he took a moment to rinse out the vessels before putting them aside to dry. He almost considered making himself something to eat, but he lost his appetite -- what little there was of it. Wiping his hands off, he exited the kitchen to go into the living room. Upon passing the general area of the organ, he stepped upon the dias and collected his manuscript and rested to a sit upon the bench. Raising his head he glanced over toward the library where she was quietly standing. Nothing said, he wasn't even sure of what he wanted to say. One day he'll finally speak what was on his mind. But by then it would be too late, his luck ran that way.

She didn't quite jump as the shadow met with the wall and Erik's form caught her eye, but she did make a startled movement, as if she'd expected to stand there the rest of the night just watching his shadow without his knowing. Her eyes met with his as he sat down at the bench, and of course, she could say nothing either. What she wanted to do was either ask him to sing her to sleep or for him to read to her in the library again, where it was comfortable and peaceful, where it seemed like another world entirely. They could try it again -- she, laying as if asleep, and he could return to nearly tracing every contour of her neck. Only she wouldn't say anything this time and let him go on. Her body weakened visibly just recalling the feelings.

When she seemed to slacken he nearly placed the manuscript aside. Instead he kept it between his hands as his forearms rested across his thighs. She looked as if she were swooning from exhaustion. Easing aside the parchments at a slower pace than his refrained original, he laced his fingers together. "Would you like for me to sing you to sleep?" So much for keeping from singing at all. He wanted to find out, to know, if she would desire to remain if he didn't enchant her with his ethereal voice. There was just no way he would be able to do so. Music was far too ingrained into his soul. Tenting his thumbs, he then smoothed them down along with the rest of his hands. Perhaps.. he would end up getting some sleep as well. He felt tired, every minute of his age, to be precise.

Slowly, she found herself nodding, drawing her gaze down to Erik's fingers instead of his eyes. And then immediately back up again, because she didn't really want to look away. Her own delicate fingers lowered from her lips. "I'm exhausted ... even if I'd rather stay awake." Quite like her to stay up until she passed out, wasn't it? It was a strange thing to say, but she didn't know what else to say. Moving a step or two closer to him on those wobbly legs, she was forced to pause near the wall to lean her hip to it, fingers curled tenderly at her chest, where her heart beat lazily underneath.

It wasn't an answer to his question, but it would have to do. He didn't take it as a yes or no. He straightened slightly as she drew closer, then paused to weakly lean against the wall. She was exhausted, and appeared as if she were about to collapse at any given moment. Sliding his hands back, he dropped one to the bench and pressed to ease with boneless grace to a stand. Stepping own the duo of stairs from the dias, he apporached her with a glance to her door. The corner of his mouth gently lifted in some amusement. "I believe you are going in the wrong direction, my dear. Your room is over there," one hand lifted and he gestured with a singular finger over toward the dark doorway. Cheeks flushing with a little bit of color as she glanced to where he was pointing, her gaze was drawn to his small smile and a ghost of one mirrored on her own lips before she wetted them. "I ... I know," she murmured, half-thinking he was serious. "Would you mind singing to me?" she continued meekly, dropping her hand to press it to the wall, holding herself steady with a simple press as she lifted her hip from it.

"There is little you could ask of me that I would deny, Christine."


	2. Dreams And Reality

"There is little you could ask of me that I would deny, Christine."

There was utmost sincerity within his voice as he laid raw and exposed, then shifting his eyes from her, he studied the door way again before stepping in that direction. He paused briefly, looking back to her to ensure she wasn't going to end up collapsing. That wouldn't bode well. But he wouldn't allow her to drop to the floor, either. Upon this bare stone she could severely harm herself should her weight go down by full and without restraint. Christine had to wonder what little she might ask that he would refuse. What sort of thing might overstep his seemingly endless giving? Of that.. she would have to question and find where his limits were.

Following him as he made his way, she moved into her room, tapping off her slippers and pausing for a moment before she removed her robe. It just then dawned on her how inappropriate it might be to wear such things in his presence. At least, now that he had stated in actual words that she was more than just his student. But she really didn't keep those thoughts for too long as she lay the robe along the edge of her bed and pressed one knee to her mattress to hoist herself up and into the large bed, sliding her feet underneath the blankets. Sitting up for a moment, she watched Erik as she lay herself down, turning to her side. "You'll sleep too, won't you? In a bed?" As the last time she'd seen him sleep, he'd done so at his desk. Even so, she had forgotten that he had no bed but a coffin.

Taking a hold of a candle as he wandered into her room, he drew close to her lantern and lifted the glass from the small dias. Tilting the flame to the wick, he turned up the dial slowly, allowing the glow to heighten before he blew the candle's flame out. Glancing back toward her as she removed her robe, he brought his gaze down to the lantern again as he replaced the glass. The dial was then turned to bring a dim haze of light into the room, then approaching the bed as she climbed within he brought over the chair from her vanity to set it next to the bed. Lowering he tried to regain what comfort he had lost ... sometime around while being in the library. "It would be possible, if I had a bed, my dear," he paused a moment, then continued. "What would you like for me to sing to you?"

Frowning desperately as her thoughts turned to that awful coffin of his, her eyes implored him. "I'm sorry, Erik. I didn't mean to ..." But he didn't look as sorry as she did that he owned the thing and had to sleep in it. In fact, he never looked remotely troubled by it. How could he not see how morbidly strange it was? She glanced up, noting the quiet smile and the shake of his head, provoked by her apology, indication that she didn't have to backpedal, but she did nevertheless. "I ... I would like anything, really," she whispered, lowering her gaze from his, a few stray curls tangling gingerly around the column of her pale throat. "A lullaby? Something soft."

Rolling his shoulders back to force some looseness to the muscles, he leaned forward, resting his forearms across his thighs just as he had done before. With his fingers laced he thought over what he could sing to her. A simple lullaby came to mind and he nodded to himself. Glancing up to ensure that she was snugly tucked in, he closed his eyes while 'looking' forward again, and though his was leaned over, there was absolutely no strain within the ethereal voice. "_How many stars are up in the sky? How many grains of sand on the shore? Though we may count, there will always be more. We could count miracles all night long, one by one. On and on we would never be done. So go to sleep, my dear one ..._"

It was much, much easier for Christine to relax herself, especially as his voice seemed to pet down every last trembling, anxious nerve. The words were simple, and reminded her of the way she liked to hear stories - on and on, ever wanting more when there was always more to give. Her eyes closed as she turned to lay half on her back and half on her side, drawing the blankets up a bit higher to huddle in the warmth. Lips parted, it wouldn't take long with this luscious treatment for Christine to fall to a quiet sleep. She was already beyond exhausted.

"_How many blades of grass in the field? How many birds fly up in the air? How many shells on the ocean floor? Life's many wonders abound everywhere._" His eyes slowly drew open again, and he tipped his chin down to look upon her as he sang, a faint smile found against the corner of his mouth. "_We could count miracles all night long, one by one. On and on we would never be done. So go to sleep, my dear one._" Sometimes it was easy for him to simply pretend that all was okay, especially during moments like this. He leaned forward, gathering up the second blanket that laid folded at the foot of the bed, then easing it up along her already covered form, he draped it across her shoulders. _"How many berries hang upon the vine? How many seeds does the spring breeze sow? How many leaves are up in the tree? Just when we know more new ones will grow. We could count the miracles all night long, one by one. On and on we would never be done. So go to sleep, my dear one ..._"

But it would be okay - all of it - if he kept her here, wouldn't it? In time, she would forget about Raoul and the way his lips felt against hers. It would be even easier to make her forget the operas and busy rehearsals and the stench of alcohol near the staircases leading to the roof, her own personal escape. If he caged her, forced her hand a little, she would grow to enjoy herself, especially in moments like these, where he soothed her. When he bought her chocolates because he remembered she liked them or dresses in her favorite colors. When they read together and she laughed with him. When she made him breakfast. Some dreams weren't easy to achieve, and others are just not meant to be. _"Go to sleep, go to sleep, go to sleep, my dear one. For one thing I know is true ..._" He broke off with just a slight inhale of breath as his eyes shut again. "_The sweetest miracle is you. Yes, one thing I know is true; the sweetest miracle is you."_

Slowly, but surely, his voice died off, becoming nothing more than a lingering memory, drifting within the dream scape she may be beginning. He remained sitting, his eyes opening to rest upon her anew. She looked so peaceful while she slept. If only it would remain that way. Where she would be comfortable in his presence without fear of what he might do should she say or do something wrong. Did she truly fear him as much as he believed? He wasn't sure, and often he wondered if she would have agreed to stay if she wasn't afraid for her life, or that of the Vicomtes. Another lean and he adjusted the blanket, leaving his hand lingering upon the cloth, long enough to feel the subtle warmth of her skin seeping through.

Quietly, he heard her breath passing through her slightly-parted lips, and if he left his hand where it was, he might even be able to feel the rise and fall of her body as she slept. So unaware of everything around her, it would have done him well to fall in love with someone else. Someone who could at the very least answer a comment like his from earlier, someone who wasn't afraid of her own shadow if it came upon her suddenly. Sound asleep, she appeared untroubled by anything, and perhaps she would have looked so always if she'd actually grown up properly. Too many little picnics in the attic to keep her mind forever childlike. Damn Raoul for that. Even that boy wasn't fully grown. It was he that wished to keep Christine as a childhood friend, but something a bit more. Erik ... Erik wanted a woman - mind, body, heart and soul - wanted her to become that woman. But it was so hard to have her be what he wished, when he was so unsure of himself.

It was in his thoughts to remain there, maybe even lay down on the other side of the wide bed. But that was just ... unheard of. Stupid, even. Especially after the reaction she gave him when he told her what he felt. Thank the Gods that he didn't express everything. But that was just ... so very discouraging. If she had that reaction with only part of his feelings, he could only imagine how it would be if he expressed it all. He didn't want to think about it, for all it did was bring a chilled knot within the pit of his stomach. Instead of laying near, he settled upon the bed's edge, and sliding his hand from the blanket, he pressed her hair back from her face and neck, letting it rest behind her in dark coils.

Erik was altogether right not to sleep beside her on the bed, for she might have screamed and come up with all sorts of images which said virgin mind couldn't begin to understand. He had made the mistake once with touching her when he believed she was sleeping, and he wasn't so quick to make that mistake again - give him a day or so when the urge was so strong it couldn't be resisted. He had already gotten a taste of it, and even now, sitting so close, he was itching to sate that growing addiction that couldn't be denied. It was only her hair that he caressed before he pressed to a stand, and brushing his trousers back to his ankles, he leaned to turn down the lantern, then made his way to the door. Pausing at the threshold, he glanced back, then closed the door behind him quietly. He had a pattern to life, it seemed, for when he left the first thing he did was freshen up with a long hot bath, then donned his slacks and robes before going into the library. Lighting a few candles to be easy upon his eyes, he settled down at his piano with his manuscript, and splayed the pages out. The happenings of the night had assisted within the addition of a few more pages. Longing dripping in each crimson note. There he'd stay, even as the day drew on, and her eyes fluttered to an opening.

It took her a few minutes to realize she wasn't still dreaming, for through the walls, she could hear a dreamy sort of music, rich in tenderness, the longing in the sustained notes drawing her heart out of her chest as she sat up in the bed, rubbing her cheek warmly. Feeling half-asleep still but actually as awake as she should be, just a bit lethargic, she climbed out of bed and, forgetting her near-resolution about wearing such clothes around him, pulled on her robe and fastened it about her slender waist as she padded silently out of her room and towards the music, tilting her head to peek in the library as she stayed close to the door's frame, not wishing to disturb Erik or pull him from it. Whatever it was he was writing was beautiful. Hauntingly sad, but beautiful.

There were eyes upon her ... well, an eye, actually. Hollowed out and beset within surrounding porcelain. During the night he had removed the mask, allowing his flesh to breathe. While the material used was smooth to the touch, it was annoyingly hot and tended to rub him raw. His back was to her, thankfully sparing her the horror. Pausing within the measure, he took up his quill and tapping it against the bottom of the near empty ink well, he smoothed the angled end of feather along the edge, then began scribing down what had gone through his mind. It was a realization. An amorous man coming to terms with this constricting sensation that set about him. Warm yet frightening. Erik wrote about what he knew, and while he could never truly express Don Juan's sexual nature, he knew all about longing, and confusing love. Tucking the quill away he rubbed his fingers against his eyes, then dropped his hand back to the keys, beginning from the mid of the song, languidly making his through the melody without pause. This change was added, and he seemed to approve as he closed his eyes, swaying slowly, letting the song draw him into its tentative hold.

Like a small child looking in on something she knew she shouldn't be, Christine stood at the threshold of the library, peering around the frame that she tentatively leaned against to watch him. Or at least to watch his fingers and arms and the way he moved against the music, for she couldn't see his face at all except enough to know the mask wasn't there. That and she saw it sitting on the piano beside him, staring at her as if it could dare her to enter. She wouldn't though, despite the urgent pull in the music that made her weight shift from leg to leg, as if holding her feet back. It held such ... longing in it. The anticipation of each note, the repetition in others at just the right moment, the chords that grated her heart - it all built inside her. It was too much perhaps, for she drew her bottom lip between her teeth to worry at it.

As he continued playing, his mind had allowed a different set of lyrics come to his mind, and for a moment his fingers slowed within their rhythm. Tilting his head a bit, he glanced upon the parchment he had set up, then lifted his hands to begin shuffling through them. Pulling a few leaflets free he placed them upon the stand; empty. Curling his fingers, he lowered his hands to the keys again, and drawing from the melody that he used within _Don Juan_ a different song began. Though it seemed jovial with the lighter lilt of higher notes, the addition of bass clef brought the melancholy feel. Longing remained within every chord, but it was changed, just a bit. A plea. Closing his eyes, he let his fingers go where they wished, his soul directing them across the black and white ivory.

It was a plea that Christine felt burn within her heart. The fresh hint of new tears crisply pecked at her eyelids, but they only made her eyes glossy and watery. A few measures later, she had drawn closer, then a little closer still, heart thrumming uncontrollably in her chest, pulsing with each sensual wave of music that fell over her. Until she stood quite close to him, just behind. Eyes closed, the poor creature began to hum the melody line. Maybe he didn't mean to add vocals here, but it pierced the core of the song like a spark of fire against the shroud of night. Her voice hadn't come as a shock, mostly because while he had heard it, he wasn't completely aware that there was a second entity there. The harmony was added in, a delicate balance as to keep from overshadowing the original melody that she was humming. And just that quickly.. the solo became a duet. He started the song again, looping it seamlessly with the end of it, and for the moment his voice laid silent, listening to the softer, gentle caress of her own. He enjoyed this change, it was more than obvious by the ghost of a smile that rested upon his lips. It remained there for the passing of a few measures, then faded away as he allowed himself to be wrapped by the almost entrancing quality of her voice.

Still, from this angle, Christine couldn't see Erik's mask-less face, and though she knew he was without it, she couldn't begin to think about that when his voice was once more tangled with her own. Christine had not sung for days, so her voice was by no means perfect, but the almost raw, just-roused-from-slumber quality gave something more to it. And just as he was entranced by her voice, she was just so by his, as always seduced by voice, spirit, and pitch. As it was, she stood so close to him that he could smell her. Considering he slept with that likeness of her in his room it wouldn't be a surprise if he had her scent memorized. At least the one he had purchased for her; but when did she wear anything more around him, besides earlier. The one Raoul had purchased her. That scent was removed from her rather quickly, thankfully. It was far too strong in his opinion - even if it was actually a light scent, he was just biased. The longer he played, the more fleshed out the song was beginning to become. He was supposed to have paused to write them down, but he couldn't bring himself to allow it. Not with her voice and scent adding to this dream scape. The lyrics were coming strongly, most settled in stone where he just couldn't bring himself to change them.

Christine would have to be guided into the lyrics if she sang any at all; for now, she left them at the softness of her humming, taking irregular breaths in her attempts to keep up with a melody she didn't exactly know. But it came to her somehow, easily so after a few moments, until the harmony was enough to drive her mad. There was a strange tug against their voices, and it was enough to have made her scream in frustration - instead, she sang through it, chest heaving and voice soaring above his, lips parted so that a strong 'ah' sound replaced the lip-clenched hum she had begun with. He ... wasn't imagining, he realized. The voice was too perfectly feminine to be his imagination. As many times as he had dreamed of her voice within his dreams, there was always that small touch that would have him know it wasn't her.

This was her ... And it was that fact that was drawing him closer to surface thought instead of simmering in his subconscious. He cracked his eyes open slightly, but never ceased the movement of his hands across the keys. It was a perpetual loop, a song that was never ending. With this round it was changed, at least vocal wise. She was left to sing the beginning - in truth, it was because he had come to realize that she was there, other wise he would have added his own humming. He glanced over toward her briefly, fighting the temptation to snatch up his mask and put it on again. Instead he exhaled slowly, relaxing and closing his eyes again. The melancholy melody was picked up with his deeper voice; in his mind it was the second part of the duet.

Singing alone, Christine began to, on the inside, really realize what longing meant - she missed the sound of his voice accompanying her own, curling around it. She very nearly opened her eyes, as it seemed he might let her go on alone forever, and then he joined, and she physically released a deep breath, taking in another to continue with him, her mind beating wildly against him. The song continued around their voices, merely in the background of what mattered, which was the emotions that lay bared between them when they sang. Raw with the plea of his solo that she had curiously happened upon. All good things had to come to an end, but he truly didn't wish to stop. Not while she rested so close, not drawing back in fear of his face as she had done before.

He wanted to sing the lyrics, and not just give a wordless hum, but they spoke so much. He had told her enough within the library the night prior. Told her, only to be rejected. He didn't have the earthly knowledge when it came to wooing women through mundane ways. He only had his music to speak for him. "_Christine .._." he whispered gently, perfect timing to the words that were traveling through his mind. It wasn't part of the lyrics before, he was speaking to draw her from the enshrouding wrap the music had upon her, but now that single word was there. It was a good thing that he wasn't playing a harsher song, with the way he continued the loop, his fingers would've been sore by now.

The sound of her name seemed to fit right into the song, and so she wasn't called out of the spell yet at all. If anything, it drew her in further. He would have to say it again, in a different tone, or stop playing altogether, if he really wanted her attention drawn. Didn't he realize it would be better to keep her in such a spell for the rest of her life? Once she saw his face, what did he think would happen? Did he imagine she had noticed already and didn't fear it at all? Didn't wish to run from it in fear? Did he really think she was there _because of_ it? That she ever would be? To look upon his face and see something more than deformity? Poor, misguided Erik. Keep her like that forever or come to terms with reality.

She was still in a waking dream when she let herself sing like this. It was as if she was a different woman entirely when she sang. As disturbingly intelligent that thought would be, it was something he couldn't bring himself to do. He couldn't keep her in an imaginary world and watch her sanity slip away as she would begin to believe that the dream she was in was real. He had destroyed one person's life like that already, and it would kill him if she sank into the same oblivious abyss. He was determined to win her love like a normal person. But oh, he just wasn't someone that could be considered normal, now was he? She gave no answer, and he continued on as if he hadn't said anything to begin with.

"Sit with me," another whisper of words, a gentle caress of singsong, though it was hardly his intention. He was still humming when he had decided to speak.


	3. Love Or Lust?

"Sit with me."

The deceptive softness of his voice brought a chill along her skin, and whether it was his intention or not it, again, fit perfectly into his song - _their _song - and Christine obeyed wordlessly. If she would have been more herself, she might have glanced to him by now and ruined it all. But as she came around the bench, her eyes barely opened. Sitting slowly, her voice had breathlessly tapered down into a decrescendo until it disintegrated with the passing notes on the piano. Her gaze fell on his fingers, watching them dance across the whites and blacks with fluid ease, admiring the strong veins in them and the silky way the tips caressed the worn places with vast familiarity. What he would give for an extra hand! There was a tendril of hair rested upon her cheek that he would have desired to press away, only to follow its length down along the side of her neck and to the line of collarbone.

Now that she was sitting there ... what would he do with her? He gave in, the temptation was too hard to resist, and raising a hand from the keys his voice took over where his fingers left off and he touched the backs of them against the coiled hair to press it over her shoulder as he had done before, though there was no fiddling with it to bring it forward again. Following its length, he tucked the upper portion behind her ear, then followed its length with the pad of index and thumb; sliding along the curve of lobe until he came to the softer flesh at the bottom, and there he paused, savoring the simple feel of her skin beneath his fingers.

Almost immediately, Christine's head tilted to the opposite side, baring the entire length of her neck, all the way to where it met shoulder and collar bone, lower to where the lace of the robe concealed her skin. The prominent vein at the side of her neck throbbed and a shudder passed silently through her body as his fingertips lingered at her ear, tracing the oversensitive shell at the outer-cartilage down to the soft lobe. If he didn't want her under his spell, but he was doing a terrible job of pulling her out of it. Eyes closed once more, her shoulders drooped, the lace sleeves of the robe balancing on the delicate curve of her shoulder. Exhaling, her entire body seemed to move with the motion.

The thought of drawing her deeper became stronger, lingering within that precarious balance between right and wrong. Her shudder hadn't gone unnoticed and for a brief moment he paused, a bit of concern passing before he had noticed the rapidness of her pulse and breathing, as well as the way she tilted her head. It was amazing how he could split his attention; playing, humming and observing her. Tucking his hand beneath the weight of her hair, he brushed it back, bearing her shoulders completely from their weight, and adjusting the bit of lace and cloth, he pulled the neckline up again, though it was only brushed away as his fingers passed in an innocent caress along the strength of her pulse. Tentative, he kept his hand ready to pull back as if he expected she would snap out of it at any given moment.

A soft moan escaped her lips as they parted, and at that moment, she was nearly lifeless, yet brimming with anticipation, even gasping when his fingers brushed the throb in her neck. She was his here, surrounded by the lilting chant of his music. So deeply drawn that it would take more than just the call of her name to bring her back from this enshrouding place. For a moment it had felt as if someone had struck him in the stomach, his breath held and gone in that fleeting second, all because of that breathy sound that had slipped from her throat. Exhaling slowly of air he wasn't even aware of being trapped within his lungs, he quieted for only a moment, then brought the softness of his voice into the air again.

What harm _would_ it be? She would never know should he decide to further explore her skin. Going beyond the graze of fingers along her ear, or neck. He could ... could ... what in the world was he _thinking?_ That's not right, not _at all_. He couldn't even be doing _this._ Half lidded, molten gold settled upon his hand and its position at the narrow of her neck, the backs of his fingers rested against her pulse. _Just.. move your hand. Tell her to go back to her room, and stop playing. _It sounded like a good plan, didn't it? So just why was hand drifting downward to follow the line of her robe, only to pause where cloth crossed over her chest?

_It was because I am _human_. Anyone would want more,_ he told himself. Even pristine little Raoul must have drawn the backs of his fingers along the tempting curve of her neck only to know true yearning at wanting _more_. At feeling like more might not even be enough to satiate the hunger. Probably also because Erik's life was nothing but disappointment followed by disappointment, and now here was the object of his every desire, moaning and arching at the simplicity of his touch. Another gentle shudder passed over her skin and her next exhale was thick. Leaning her chest forward and dipping down a bit, she merely tempted him without knowing it. _How easy would it be, Erik? Just _touch _her. Forget that she's as good as drugged and that it's wrong. _As sick as it sounded, perhaps that would be the guiding push she needed over the edge. Either way, she would never know if he didn't want her to.

_Dear.. God. _His voice broke briefly, and he gave a very slow swallow before his throat opened up for the next series of notes. He had ceased with the wordless song, drifted back toward the hum - it was all he could do to regulate his breathing. Turning his hand and bringing an awkward angle to his arm, he turned his eyes away, closing them for a languid exhale to be released. That little devil was just prodding away, wasn't he? And all the while there was that other voice telling him that it would be wrong. That she would hate him if she found out that he had taken advantage, once again lured her into some fantasy world where she was helpless to resist. Not to mention helpless to response.

Move or don't move ... She wouldn't know or she would. He was conflicted. It wasn't healthy being human, especially one that was so denied, even for something as simple as a kiss. His own _mother_ wouldn't grace him one for his birthday. She was dead now, why dwell? He had no other choice to. Instead he turned his focus elsewhere, a place it should be. Perhaps if he just didn't _see_ what he was doing, or not yet doing... Eventually body won over mind, and he held in a breath as fingertips slipped just beyond the top of her gown, the pad of index and side of middle finger caressing just barely along the upper curve of a breast. This time, it was he that shuddered.

The rise and fall of her chest was slow compared to the rhythmic thumping of her heart, one he could feel strongly along the skin of his fingers. Her head tilted back and she swallowed to dampen her dried throat. Every bit of warmth found its way to her cheeks, then seemed to very nearly slither its way down her body, raising gooseflesh along her shoulders and arms, down further to her thighs as the heat finally pooled between them. Whatever part of her mind still managed to function waited with marked anticipation, wondering at the lethargy in his touch, especially when every other part of her was responsive to him. _Look at her, Erik; nearly tipped over for you, begging for you to go on. She would never let him have this. It is reserved for you, for this moment. Take it, _that little demon purred into his ear and he closed his eyes against it.

Finding the way his arm was angled to be far too awkward, he pulled his hand away, his very blood screaming in protest, only to be sated as he lifted his other hand from the piano to replace the first. He didn't need to be playing. His very voice lingered in her ear, so close that he might as well have been humming directly against the shell. Hooking his left hand along side of the bench, he scooted closer to her, again beginning to wonder the honor in all of this. Pressing further down, his hand remained above her heart, simply feeling the rapid thump. _Leave it_, that first whispered again. He should. He truly, truly should, but he just couldn't bring himself to pry away from her.

He never thought skin could be so soft. Different from her neck or her ear, it was silken ... no, finer than silk. Still of aware mind that he would be concerned of her toppling off of the bench, he brought his free hand beneath the weight of her hair, his fingers curling against her nape as he cut down the distance between them close enough where her shoulder would be pressing against his chest. Her heart wasn't the only that was rapidly thumping, surely if she wasn't enraptured by his voice she'd be able to feel it. There was only so far his hand could go before the gown stopped him. He had no thoughts of going any where else, though. If she drew out of it and caught him moving further ... he'd die. Without his mask, doing exactly what he had professed to himself that he wasn't going to do; both with the touch to her skin and the enthralling, she'd be absolutely horrified.

It took all of his strength to draw away from her, to bring his hand to a rest against her shoulder then finally from her completely. He shut his ears to her soft sound of protest, and swallowing slowly, he lifted a hand to his face to rub the skin slowly. Pressing up and hefting her into his arms, he began carrying her out of the library. He could have very well told her to return to her room, but he didn't trust his voice at the time, not beyond the languid hum that continued to pass over the experienced vocal cords. As still as a dead body in his arms, eyes still closed, she still trembled lightly, breath still heavy, lips remaining parted. Her throat was dry, but she wouldn't notice that until she woke later from her little 'dream'.

Dipping a shoulder slightly and ensuring that he wouldn't bumping her head against the door as he nudged it open. Carrying her over to her bed, he turned enough where he'd be able to rest upon its edge and place her to the cushion of the mattress. A song still within his throat, he lowered his hand to take up the blanket, but paused while regarding the robe. If she was to think that she never woke, then it wouldn't do well for her to still be wearing it, not to mention her slippers. Sliding those off first, he placed them where they were last seen, then rested to the bed's edge again, regarding the robe's belt as if it was a cobra ready to strike; warily. Dragging in a slow breath, dexterous fingers lowered to ever-so-slowly pluck loose the already precarious knot.

Laying delicately on the bed, awake for all of this torture and yet too asleep to really be conscious of any of it, she shifted slightly as the belt came undone. Tilting her head to the side, away from Erik, she sighed - nearly gave a hum along with it, it was so musical - and rubbed her cheek against the pillow, the rest of her slight body motionless. Brushing the cloth open, he slid his hand beneath her neck and eased her up gently, sitting her almost straight with her weight supported by his arm. So close, he could smell the familiar perfume he had purchased her, and she could clearly hear the continued thrum of notes in his throat. While she might have been unconscious, he didn't wish to take the chance of her waking, especially in such a compromising position. It took great willpower to go about pressing the robe from her right shoulder to ease it down her arm which was pulled free soon after. So much willpower that his jaw was aching with how firmly it was clenched. Dampening his throat in a swallow, he shifted his arm up out of the way while awkwardly reaching beneath it to work off the other side, trying not to jostle her too much in the process.

Like a rag-doll, her head lolled backwards as he guided her up by the back of her slender neck, and when her weight was so far forward that gravity began to take its toll the other way, she fell gently forward into his arms, naked forehead pressed to the crook of shoulder and neck, her temple to his throat, where the hum reverberated and stirred her to a quiet moan. It felt good, like a cat warmly purring against aching muscles - soothing. Conscious somehow of the chill in the air as he removed one arm from the robe, both shoulders rose in a shiver and her head pressed more firmly against him, turning her head just so that the crown of her head nuzzled the crook of his neck. He froze abruptly and stared at his cloth laden hand, dumbfounded, then slid his gaze to her. There it remained with a few lethargic passings of her hearts beat. Moistening his lower lip, he drug in a deep breath and curled his hand against her shoulder. Instead of pushing her away immediately, he held her closer. There was an idle wonder that nearly brought a chuckle to his throat; could those several floors above him hear the thundering of his heart? Because it was deafening to him.

He was above animal urges, no matter how much of a monster he had been made out to be. Yet, still, there was an undeniable ache. He prayed, oh did he ever pray, that what he felt for her was genuine love, and not some twisted thing he was imagining. Not some lust that could barely be controlled. Yes ... yes he was above those animalistic urges. He didn't need unfulfilled desires to rule his life. He had ways of directing that passion; his music. Granted, it didn't offer the same type of release a writhing, moaning body might give, but he's made due all this time. For what, though? More frustration and a multi-page libretto that no one was ever going to hear? Did he truly want the public to witness such music. Music that they would surely shun only because they could not face the passion within their own souls. Pathetic fools. They wouldn't know a true to-be-felt opera if it bit them. Sliding his palm from her shoulder and along her arm, he captured her wrist within the curl of his fingers. It did feel as if this was perfection, as if this was how it was supposed to be. Easing her arm up, he settled it over his shoulder, a mockery of an embrace. While it thrilled him to have her so close, it was unbelievable pain to know it could only be while she was trapped within a vocal haze. Turning his head he brushed the unmarred curve of his cheek against hers, breathing out a single word across her ear that held all the weight of the world.

"Christine.."

Her arm fell where he placed it, and it seemed like an all too delightful weight around his shoulder, holding him as if she really meant to. For a moment it almost seemed as if she nuzzled into his cheek, her breath dancing across the front of his throat. Unconsciously she gripped the fabric at the side of his shirt, her long fingers curling tightly as she drew him closer, her arm tightening. _Please, God. Let it be me she feels. Let it be me within her mind's eye. _The anguish of these questions were almost unbearable, and he resisted curling his arms tighter around her body. Her lashes gently fluttered against the side of his neck, but it was a sensation that had been shoved into the back of his mind. She felt so different from the lifeless creature that stood attentively within his room. No one could ever understand his plight, and just how pathetically lonesome he was, that even the cold lifeless press of a painted, porcelain face against his neck was better than nothing at all. But she was hardly made of porcelain, cloth and stuffing. A living, breathing woman who was rested so peacefully against him - unaware, but still peaceful. Enough that she loosely wrapped him in the coil of her arms.

One of his own settled across the back of her shoulders, while the other went along with the hand that coursed its way from shoulder, to her elbow then back to her shoulder. Silence was his enemy at this time, but there was truly nothing he could do about it at that moment. His throat was sealed, closed by the heated knot that had rested within. All dreams had to end, and he was too reluctant to part from this one. Another temptation rose, to turn his head and brush his lips to her skin; but while he had braved to go this far, he couldn't press further. His head shifted, grazing his cheek against her own once more, and swallowing thickly he had gotten rid of some of the ache within his throat, just enough to quietly sing a portion of the song from earlier. "_In my heart you'll find my love...it's yours._" It was as close to a full confession he could give, and with it, he carefully began to ease her from his arms, and her arms from him.

Eyes that had been opening were drawn closed again as the soft sound of his voice pulled her back beneath the abyssal tide. Her arms slid at his direction limply from around his body, head tipping back as he pulled her away, easing her towards the mattress and with a quiet hum of sound in her throat, she turned her head to rest her cheek to her pillow. Drugged as if swimming through an opium field, she offered no protest to the removal of his scant warmth from her chest. So bordering upon the edge of sleep, if she slumbered again it wouldn't be for long. And she would never know what had passed between them was real.

Easing the robe from beneath her and pulling the covers over, he pressed to a stand with no small amount of discomfort. All of this ... it was a test, in his opinion. While he failed in drawing her within that enthralling haze, he succeeded in proving himself that what he had for her was truly love. If it was lust he would have kept her under and took advantage of her beautiful, prone body. Hanging the robe upon the nearby vanity chair, he glanced over to her, and exhaling slowly he made his way from the room with a close of the door behind him. Slumping against the surface he rubbed his hands against his face, trying his best to ignore the ache that seemed to travel throughout him. Pressing away from the door he stalked a path back to the library where there was a safe distance between them. Once settled, he rested his elbows against the keys and cradled his face in his hands, trying to maintain some sort of reasonable pace to his ragged breaths.


	4. Just A Dream And Nothing More

It took Christine but a few moments to fall into a tormented slumber, rolling almost immediately onto her side to curl up in the warmth that surrounded her - and yet didn't. There was an ache in her body that she had never felt before, not even around her precious Raoul. Curling until she was tangled in the covers, she finally stilled, but the silence was too great after having been filled so soothingly with song but a moment before. Lashes fluttered softly against pale cheeks and she found herself staring at the box of chocolates on her vanity. Delicately her brows furrowed in the haze that still remained over her, as if she had overslept by more than a few hours.

It was hard to say just how long he sat there, his brow pressed against the meaty portion of his palms and his eyes staring at the keys, all the while trying to calm the raging heat that flowed through his veins. Eventually it died down, leaving a lingering ache behind. That was one pain he wasn't going to get rid of easily. Lowering an arm to rest across the keys, bringing a discordant sound into the still, stale air, he rubbed his thumb and forefingers across his eyes slowly, easing away the sting that laid within. Brushing his fingers along the ivory, he was inadvertently reminded of the way her skin felt beneath his fingertips, and grunted faintly. Dropping his other hand to the keys, he began playing again, needing to get his mind off the things that plagued him. Nothing too harsh, though it wasn't soft and soothing either.

It didn't take long for her mind to reconstruct the dream. It was nearly tangible, so much so that she wanted to draw it in closer, though once she heard the faint noise of the piano and felt her feet itching to move from the room and go to the library, she frightened herself and instead huddled beneath the covers. The dream had felt so real, every bit of it, and sickened her so that her stomach felt empty. Wishing to stare at nothing, she rolled away so that she could no longer see the vanity, further tangling herself as tears rose in her eyes. Wrapping her arms around herself, kicking at the covers to free her legs a bit, she brought them up close to her chest. What did it mean, a dream this vivid, in which she felt Erik's fingers tracing the fullness of her breasts? Aching, she bit her lip, a moan escaping her throat with an exasperated shudder.

The guilt was just ... eating at him. While it had been nothing more than a touch, it was non-consensual. She would have never, _ever_, allowed him to do such a thing had she been aware of his actions. Though she'd enjoyed it, moaning and arching, there was no changing the fact that he had once again deceived her. Sliding his hands from the piano, he scooted the bench back and eased to a stand, making his way from the library and into his room. He did occasionally use non-  
musical methods to relax. Drawing a bottle of brandy from the depths of a drawer, he searched for the glass he thought he had left behind, then carried the bottle with him out of his room. One glass would take the edge off his nerves - he was depending upon it.

Christine lay there for a long time, drifting from the memory of the dream to thoughts of her own bed far above. The consuming passions she'd been feeling her. Eventually she was able to draw her mind away from the dream to slide out of bed, feeling strangely colder than she normally did on leaving the comforts of sleep. Moving into her bathroom, she glanced many times at the door. She wanted, to go to him, but the music had stopped, and she didn't know if she'd be able to look at him after the thoughts that had passed through her mind. Drawing herself a warm bath, she watched the water fill the porcelain basin. She frowned, drawing her fingers over the curve of her breasts with a tremble. Gripping her hands to still them, she clasped them tightly to her stomach and sank to the nearest seat for a moment while the water filled the tub. While she relaxed, he paced, slowing down only long enough to listen to the sound of the running water.

The vivid sensation of her skin that had flickered to his mind caught him off guard, just as much as the pleasant sensation that coiled in the pit of his stomach. Muffling a groan, he lifted his free hand and pressed it to his face, realizing only then that he was not wearing his mask. He paused abruptly and made a detour back to the library. It was rare for him to forget such a thing so easily. The woman was a drug, and his very veins screamed for another dose, one stronger than the mere sample he had had already. Within the library he slipped his fingers beneath the porcelain and placed it back upon his face with a practiced ease. Smoothing the false strands down over the mask's cord, he returned to his path to the kitchen yet again, finally collecting a glass. Unscrewing the top of the brandy bottle, he poured the glass half full, not even bothering to wait to get back to his room.

Placing the bottle aside, he lifted the glass, letting the candlelight shine through before tilting it to his lips and drinking down the strong liquor. Setting the glass down, he almost considered pouring another one, but decided against it. It wouldn't do for him to get drunk. He licked his lower lip, exhaling a slow, heated breath, then carried both bottle and glass into his room with another brief glance. Unable to truly make up his mind, he made a second detour to the library to take up the book he had been reading before they finished Arabian Nights. Holding the book and glass precariously, he wandered out and approached his couch, sinking down upon the cushions. Resting the glass and bottle on the table, he stretched his legs out along the couch's length and leaned back against the arm, opening up the book to begin reading. He was already beginning to feel a bit calmer. Not _completely_ though … not by a long shot.

Christine had found no peace within her bath, either. A harsh shudder consumed her, nearly spilling the water over the edge, and she had to drain some of it down before she finally sank down, letting her curls swim around her naked form, coiling around her throat with a gentle touch that reminded her of the images that flickered still through her mind. Nearly whimpering from the throbbing ache swelling where she had imagined his touch to be, she took a deep breath and stared up at the ceiling, too leery to touch herself even to wash. Every patch of skin seemed overly sensitive. She took a long bath, finally able to bring herself to run the soap along the length of her body without shuddering in hysterical ecstasy. When she had dried herself and thrown on her robe, she glanced into her closet, noticing for the first time the new dresses he had bought for her, and a faint smile replaced the worried frown that had marred her sweet features. Fifteen or twenty minutes later she emerged from her room almost coyly, standing hesitantly at the doorway in the white gown he had given her, a half-eaten piece of chocolate in her fingers. Though she was unable to look at him directly, she grinned a little as she sucked on the portion of chocolate already melting in her warm mouth, recalling his comment about her rotting her teeth out.

She was a bit surprised to find him slouched upon the couch, thin but strong shoulders pressed against its cushioned arm. A book propped upon his chest, his fingers lay between the lapels of his robe, scratching slowly at the pale skin beneath. What truly took her off guard was the sight of the nearby decanter, half filled with some amber colored liquid that was surely alcohol. As far as she knew he didn't drink. Then again, she recalled that she wasn't always around him. She failed to notice that his gaze was upon her, drawn by the sound of the shutting door. She gave a languid suckle upon the chocolate and another smile caressed her lips. "Are the chocolates to your liking?" he asked after a pregnant pause, and she started subtly, caught off guard by his voice.

"Very much so," she answered, her smile faltering a little. She could feel his gaze upon her, enough to force her own to his, even if he was hardly demanding the movement. "They're delicious." The second half was soon unceremoniously slipped between her lips. Unsure what to say after that, she glanced down at the gown, swallowing the taste of the rich chocolates. "You have wonderful taste in fabrics, too, Erik. This is lovely, truly." Her smile was quick to return, despite the raging thrum of her heartbeat. Seeing him there, all she could think of was her dream. Lifting his hand from his side, he used it to hide a yawn. Not only were his nerves relaxed, but the rest of him was as well. Dropping his palm to his stomach he shifted his weight slightly, crossing one ankle over the other. "I had hoped you would like them. The dresses and the chocolates. Do not eat too many of them, though. I would not wish for you to become sick."Flushing a little, wondering how on earth he could have known she'd already had a few before this one, she nearly pouted. "I won't." Her eyes innocently followed the line of his robe, she pulled her gaze away and moved closer. Instead of asking him to move, she knelt upon the floor at his side, the movement releasing the gentle scent of her perfumed flesh into the air. This was the first time she had really seen him comfortable, like any other normal man. _Truly_ comfortable. "Did I sleep for long? I feel as if I am over-exhausted."

"You slept a while this time, yes." Lowering the book slightly, he glanced down towards her and drew in a slow breath, gathering the scent of that perfume. He could sit there and breathe it all day if only it was possible. It could be, though, couldn't it? He could keep her here... He didn't dare think about that, not now. "You rested well at least, yes?" Keeping guilt and discomfort from one's features was easy when half-masked Shutting the book upon his thumb he closed his eyes to half lid, fighting back another yawn. She raised her eyes to him at his question, not wary of his reason for asking it, but of how she should answer. He couldn't know anything of her dreams, so it would have been easy to lie, but she was never fond of doing that. She had yet to really lie to him at all, and wasn't anxious to begin. "I'm not quite sure... I had strange dreams." Looking away to avoid reminding herself of the feel of his fingers against her skin, she toyed with the lace hem of the simple dress, pressing it between her forefinger and thumb, rolling it gently.

"About?" Absently running his tongue across his lower lip to collect the last lingering traces of the brandy, he glanced over to the bottle, then shifted to sink down further along the sofa's arm. Nice and comfortable, he opened up the book and folded down the edge to save his place. Leaning to the side and placing the book upon the table, he had to catch his balance on the edge before he ended up tipping over. It was all done easily, and gracefully enough that she didn't notice he had lost his balance for a moment. Resting back again he rubbed his stomach slowly, indulging his palm with the warmth inside. After a moment, she glanced up to him,furrowing her brows, wondering how she could answer without lying this time. Licking dry lips, she re-situated herself, shifting restlessly on the floor, unsure of what to say. Her cheeks flamed. "About you," she murmured, immediately looking away. "It was very real, Erik. All of it. It felt as real as sitting here talking to you. I've never felt anything like it."

"About me?" He paused a moment, stilling his hand against his stomach, and dropping his eyes, he looked toward her. "What was very real about it?" Prodding, he wanted to know just what was going through her mind concerning her 'dream.' Shifting his weight he turned to his side and propped his head upon the couch's arm, and gathered the side of the robe, pulling it over, shielding warm skin from the chill of the lair. Draping his arm across his stomach, he continued watching her from a half lidded gaze. Christine shook her head. "Everything. It was ..." She swallowed, still feeling the weight of his fingers along the top of her breast, making her shiver and raising visible goose-bumps along her throat and other portions of exposed skin. "It just seemed I could feel it more than any dream I've ever had." Though she wasn't saying anything about what had happened in the dream, she had a horrible suspicion that he could read her mind and could see the images that flickered through her thoughts. Looking to him and finding his eyes upon her, she lost her breath. "I don't know what else to say of it ... It was only a dream." _Wasn't it?_, she asked herself.

"Was it a good dream, or a bad one?" _'And if it's good, would you want to have it again?'_ _Say it..._ He couldn't bring himself to do so. That just might give away too much without her answering his first question. He scratched at the side of his inner eye, just below the brow, then dropped his arm to his stomach again. Closing his eyes almost completely, he kept them open just a smidgen so he'd be able to watch her discretely. Perhaps she would reveal more if she believed he wasn't looking upon her. Relaxing a little bit now that he wasn't looking at her, her gaze fell to his hand, which rested comfortably on a slow-rising, too-thin stomach. _Didn't he ever eat properly?_, she wondered. "It was..." She paused, furrowing her brows gently. "...I'm not sure. Both, I suppose, in some way. It was terrifying and breathless like a nightmare, but..." Turning her eyes to her own fingers, she childishly worried about her nails, half-pondering, half-trying to avoid any further questions through silence.

"I see. Well, as long as it wasn't completely a nightmare, then I do not have to worry." He cracked open his eyes slightly to look fully upon her again. "Would not wish you losing sleep, and such." At least it let him know that she didn't completely dislike her 'dream.' "You need it as much as I do. Unfortunately ... my mind will not listen to my body," the corner of his mouth faintly rose, and a low thrumming chuckle slipped through his throat. Closing his eyes again he tipped up the arm he was mostly laying upon, and, slipping it from beneath him, he crossed both arms over his chest, then finally stilled. Lucid, compared to how he felt earlier, it almost seemed as if he would fall to sleep right there. But he wouldn't. Like he'd said, his mind was far too active for his own good. With his eyes fully closed this time, he missed the opportunity to catch her studying the strong line of his shoulders and the draw of them down to his arms.

"Are you tired?" She smiled delicately. "Did you even sleep at all?" She would bet her life he hadn't, that he'd stayed up all night while she slept, and though that worried her, it was a little bit endearing that he wouldn't let himself sleep, even when it appeared he could be out at any moment, like a stubborn little boy. "No. Not tired. I haven't slept yet. I do not sleep as much as other people. There is too much in the day to do." And what, exactly, would that be? All he did was sit around and read, work on his libretto, pine, and drink tea. Not in that particular order. He left the lair sometimes, but only to take care of business so he wouldn't starve; he didn't eat that much to begin with. One meal a day was fine for him. "I've noticed," she chuckled. "But what can keep you from sleep, Erik? Whatever keeps you awake must be very important. I don't know how you manage to stay awake for so long - I grow so tired after only slightly active days."

"It is the way I have always been. I rarely slept, even as a child. Too ... active, I suppose." He decided that he didn't want to talk about his life, or more exactly his past and swerved the words off in a different direction. Glancing over toward the kitchen, he considered getting something to drink. The brandy had definitely made him thirsty. "Do you hunger?" he questioned, turning his amber gaze back to her. A bit of his hair had fallen over his mask, and she wished to push it behind his ears but refrained, eyeing it curiously instead. "I'm not really hungry, but have you eaten, Erik?"

"I have not eaten yet, no." Pressing his elbow against the couch, he pressed up and eased his legs over the edge. He yawned slowly, blinking a few times as his eyes stung with the force of the tears that sprung to life. Grumbling beneath his breath he eased up carefully. Getting up too quickly would probably make him light headed. While he hadn't drunk that much, it was enough to make him nicely lethargic, just what he had wanted. "What would you like?" Christine couldn't help but laugh again, and she reached out without thinking, her fingers a scant centimeter from his knee, to stop him as she shook her head. "Why don't you sleep, Erik? You were good enough to sing me to sleep when I asked I would be happy to do the same for you, if you'd like. I'm not truly hungry, and you look positively exhausted." She imagined that he must've been hunched over his desk for most of the night. Or maybe he'd been at the piano as he'd been when she'd awakened and that had influenced her dreams. Her free hand had raised to her lips, shielding her smile just slightly.

Lowering to a sit again he shook his head gently. "You are awake now. I will remain awake myself. I would not wish you to be bored here. And do not hide your smile." The corner of his mouth faintly lifted as he noticed her childish gesture. He found it positively endearing. Resting his forearms across his thighs, he laced his fingers together and looked down to the ground in thought. The events of hours earlier still plagued him. Just the thought was enough to bring a slight rush of heat, and he released a pent breath. Closing his eyes he tipped his head down between his shoulders. When she realized that it wasn't a dream - if she realized - he hoped that she would be able to forgive him ... because he couldn't forgive himself.

* * *

_Thank you all for the reviews. Marie and Convoitz, thank you again for the pointers!_


	5. Touched By An Angel

The smile he so loved was slowly fading as she watched him hang his head and stretch. Lowering her fingers at his soft suggestion, she hadn't realized she was doing it so often. "I'm sure I could find something to keep me occupied," she replied warmly, still watching him with that intense sort of wonder. "I never see you appearing tired in the least. I would think you would take advantage of it." Just teasing slightly, she stood slowly, watching the roll of his shoulders. Tentatively she reached out, fingers skimming the material of his robe. "I could make you some tea," she offered, trying to decide whether or not she should actually touch him to rub the muscle begging to be eased. "I am not all that tired. Just physically. My body is having a difficult time keeping up with my mind." When she mentioned tea he laughed softly. Their roles were switched; , usually he was the one to make the tea. The unmasked side of his mouth drew up in a partial grin and he glanced toward her. "If you would like. Though do you not think that drinking tea would have me do the opposite of what you wish me to? Perhaps that is why I do not sleep much." Lowering his head again he ignored the errant strands that flicked the side of his cheek. Tried to, anyway. He huffed at them once or twice, then gave up.

Deciding that yes, she did wish to touch him, she pressed her hand to the place where his shoulder met his neck, kneading as she often did to her own calf muscles. She didn't know what was good or bad, only what felt good to her when she did it to ease the tension after dance practice when she hadn't warmed up to a suitable degree. He tensed sharply at the first contact of her fingers, but when she began kneading, he urged himself to relax. He couldn't remember a time he last had a massage. Then again … he'd never had one beyond his own hands. He never let anyone get close enough to relieve the tension, not even the harem the Khanum had so .. _kindly.._ graced him with. Christine felt his muscles jump under her touch, and nearly pulled back. He tipped his head before she could, releasing an audible breath. And now, as her fingers touched the naked skin of his neck, tips brushing his lower back as they pushed against the muscle, she could feel the rampant beat of his heart, thudding thickly against the flesh.

"Well, you're being stubborn," she stated with a slight pout. "Since I'm quite sure you wouldn't sleep even if I asked it, I thought I should wake you completely so you won't look so dreadfully exhausted." Those falling hairs hadn't gone unnoticed, but for the moment, this was all she would give, as even this was tentative. Slowly he nodded, only half listening to her words, the other half masked by the thumping of his heart. "... If you would like to make the tea.." Trailing off, he shifted his forearms against his thighs and thoughtlessly tipped his head to the side, granting her fingers access to more skin. Reddening - though he couldn't see it - she took a step closer to be able to press her palm into the knot he called a muscle. "I don't think I ever drank so much tea until I met you," she continued softly, trying to keep herself conversing with him so she didn't feel so heated. It wasn't working.

Doing well in keeping the comfortable sound from his throat, he drew in a slow breath instead, then allowed it to pass between parted lips. Chuckling deeply, something she'd surely feel with her hand against his back, he glanced toward her briefly. "I have always had a penchant for tea and fine wine. Unfortunately, my wine supply is running low, and it is less expensive purchasing tea. There is a cafe that sells it by the pound." His thoughts turning toward the wine for a moment, he recalled he was supposed to go down into his cellar to see just how many barrels he had left. He just had to make sure that he didn't open the wrong barrel and end up spilling powder all over the place. "If you drank as much wine as you do tea, I'm afraid I wouldn't like to stay here at all. You'd certainly be a drunkard." She actually couldn't imagine that, even if it was amusing to imagine him guzzling wine instead of elegantly pouring another cup of tea.

"I could never be a drunkard. I enjoy wine, but only a glass or two. Same with brandy." He nodded toward the bottle. It was a good few months old, and not even half of it was gone. If only it was that easy to get rid of his tension. Then again … perhaps it was a good thing. She was …_touching him_, and of her own accord. Groaning low as she hit a particularly tense strip of muscle, he lifted his hands to cradle his brow against the meat of his palms, dutifully ignoring the uncomfortable press of porcelain against his eyebrow ridge. Tensing a bit herself as he groaned, she lifted both brows delicately and eased the pressure. "There? I can feel it." She easily dug the butt of her palm into the muscle, applying pressure and kneading warmly,. Though just the heat of her hand might do him good. For a moment, she was quiet. Then, "You really shouldn't sleep in that thing. I'm sure a mattress would make these knots go away..."

"Mm? What thing?" Cracking his eyes open, he glanced up toward her. T, then it clicked. "Oh. I have not slept on any type of bed for a while." A wry tilt came to his lips and he shook his head faintly. "I have a terrible habit of exhausting my body at a desk, and waking the next morning with my head buried in papers. Or upon the keys of my piano. It is during those times that I am glad that I am alone. It would be quite embarrassing otherwise." Christine laughed and didn't hide her smile for once, this time because her hands were occupied. "I'm afraid I saw you once like that, and I imagined you must've done the same last night, for I thought I heard you playing piano as I woke." She frowned delicately in confusion. "Or...it could have been in the dream. I think you were playing then, too." Her fingers continued their track, working along the line of muscle that felt the most in need of relaxation. She saw nothing truly wrong with this, though her conscience was eating at her a bit, telling her to step back. He had confessed something last night that should have changed the way she acted around him, but there was something in her that wouldn't let it change anything. She didn't want to be afraid of him, and there was as of yet no real reason for her to be so while they were alone. The notes were something of the above world. Down here, it was just them. No fears.

"I was playing earlier, though that was long before I rested down to read a book. Perhaps you heard me ... then." The final word slightly breathed out as her fingers continued to slide along the silk and against his back beneath. It was then that he realized how thankful he was she wasn't grazing her palm over skin. Not only because he didn't think he'd be able to take the intimate contact - more intimate than simply brushing his cheek - but he hardly wanted her to ask questions, or pity him for the map-work of scars lining his skin. He had seen many a beating in his time, from being recalcitrant as well as just looking the way he did. Sliding his brow from his hands, he turned his head to the side, resting the softness of his cheek against a palm. "Sleeping upon my piano is not a comfortable position to say the least."

"It was beautiful music," she said softly, working her long fingers into the knot and then drawing her free hand up to join it, just barely staying within the confines of the silk cloth. "I dreamt I went to watch you play it." Smiling, she looked down at his face. "Was it from your secret opera?"

"What I was playing earlier? I ... played a bit from it, yes. But then I began playing something different that came to mind. It is part of the opera now. That is what usually happens." If only he could have her do this all the time. There was that little nagging voice that told him ... he _could_. wouldn't listen, though. It wouldn't be right to keep her here against her will. But then ... it wouldn't be against her will if he could sink her so deeply into the thrall of his voice that ... that... He couldn't even think of the rest. He had little to no guilt over having done it before - it was all out of a childlike need to feel loved. He was that little porcelain doll, that perfect little boy that his mother didn't have. He could certainly enthrall her again and again, and eventually she would begin to need his voice and his musical haze like a drug. She would become an addict, able to feel pleasure only in his company. When she went to Raoul, _he_ wouldn't be able to give that to her, and she would rush back to Erik with the need beating in her heart. She would bend easily to his every whim, would be whatever he wanted under his spell. Unaware of his thoughts, Christine pressed both hands to the muscle, drawing it out down the top portion of his back, at his shoulder blades. "Will you ever publish it?"

"Who would publish the work of someone that does not exist? If it is known that the Opera Ghost wears a mask, and I am seen with one, people may begin assuming. I could not chance that. I am tired of running … Here, below the opera house, is to be my tomb. I was here upon this building's first brick, and I will be here upon my final breath." With a despairing frown, Christine pulled her fingers away, filled with pity. As much as he might not want her to ever pity him, it was all she could feel at this moment. "I'll make you some tea." There was a hint of tears in her eyes and she wasn't entirely sure why. What was it to her if he never published? If he died down here without anyone knowing who he had been, the things he had done, what sort of kindness was hidden under the masks he wore? It broke something in her heart connected with his confession from the previous night. She couldn't have explained it if she tried.

Frowning as well, but for a different reason, he glanced back when she pulled her hands from him. Had he said something wrong? Looking back ... yes, he had. She didn't like hearing him speak of death as if it were nothing. Did she not know it was inevitable? He was aging, if not already at a considerable age. "Christine?" Lowering a hand, he patted the cushion next to him. "Come sit with me? Worry not over the tea right now. I am sure that the leaves are going nowhere." To someone who had murdered death might seem inevitable, but to a mere child, to a girl as innocent and perhaps overemotional as Christine, death would always come as a surprise. She lived her life as if everyone around her were immortal. It wasn't in her thoughts to so much as consider death until someone else considered it for her.

Turning in her progress, she glanced at him with large, tear-filled eyes, and slowly made her way back, lowering carefully to a sit beside him, half turned in his direction. As she sat she averted her gaze, not wishing him to see just how his comment had affected her, or to the degree to which it had affected her. Her thoughts were focused on death then, specifically Erik's. On his lonely existence. What would he do without her? How did he live his day after sleeping in that coffin and then waking only to think he would die here? It horrified her.

He lifted his hand and brought it beneath her chin, urging it to lift. Ducking his head down slightly he looked upon her face as best he could. He furrowed his brows lightly at the tears in her eyes, and he rose his hand further, pausing just at her cheek before brushing away the warm moisture with the pad of his thumb, not lingering longer than necessary. That simple, tender gesture provoked more to flow slowly down her cheeks like a stilted waterfall. "Do not cry. You know I cannot bear to see you cry," he stated softly, no more than a whisper, a gentle brush across her ear. Doing the same beneath her other eye, he drew his hand back, thoughtlessly spreading the lingering dampness between his thumb and index finger. "Death is so terrible, Erik," she breathed, again opening her eyes, choking out the words. "How can you speak of it so naturally? As if ... As if you thought you should die this moment and it wouldn't make any difference."

"It would not make any difference." He paused a moment, then shook his head. "The managers will have their peace, the others as well. And you ... you will be ..." trailing off, he couldn't even bring himself to speak the words of her being able to spend all the time she'd like with Raoul. That she would be _free_. "Christine, your voice is perfection. You have learned so much from my tutoring. I am afraid that there is nothing more I can teach you without it becoming redundant. You ... do not need me anymore." It was a strange feeling, ripping out his own heart before laying it further upon the line. It was what he had to do to protect himself. "I will never have peace if you are dead!" she sobbed, turning her face from him to wipe her own eyes, impishly rubbing at them to try and rip the tears away before they fell. It was horrible - first hearing Erik talk of his own death and then telling her he was through with her, as if he should die tonight and not care that he had affected her in many ways, that he had changed the course of her life. He had either ruined her - or made her twice what she had been before she met him. Hiding her face from him, she drew her knees up onto the couch and curled them under her body, resting her elbows on her thigh, face in her hands. "There must be a million things I do not yet know ... I am not perfect, Erik ... I'm not."

_You would have more peace than you could imagine, _he intoned, breathing out a soft sigh. She would have been much safer if he hadn't come into her life. She would have been able to accept her father's death eventually, and would not have been drawn into his world - into a triangle that was bound to become disastrous. He began to say something, though his words faltered as she turned from him, drawing into herself and covering of her face. He was at a point where he would have been tired of her tears … if he was angry. But right then he wasn't. He was just as crushed as she was, just as torn. Scooting closer, he lifted a hand, hovering it above her shoulder, tentatively. Eventually, the cool touch of his fingers rested upon her shoulder, and he guided her back toward his chest, feeling another sob shudder through her slight frame. "I'm sorry, Erik ... Even if I'm the only one in the world, I don't wish you to die. Ever. I couldn't bear it."

"Why?", he found himself asking. His brows drew inward as he looked over her face, finally settling upon her eyes. Raising his hand from her shoulder he brought it to her cheek again, grazing away the tears that had bathed their way down along her skin. "_Why?_", she echoed breathlessly. "Because you're human. Because you have affected my life. Because ...you have been guiding me for months now ... and I don't know what I should do without you." There was more that she couldn't bring herself to say, but at least the tears were slowing. "What difference would it make if I no longer tutored you? If you no longer came down here because you did not need to?" Now he was directing his words a certain way, just for his curiosity. If he meant nothing to her other than a tutor, then it shouldn't make any difference. He'd made her voice perfect, and if she didn't need to be tutored anymore, then she could simply go on with her life. She wouldn't need him. But ... if there was something more ... Perhaps he could assume that from her reaction, but he just wanted to make sure. _Needed _to.

She couldn't very well answer, 'Because I'm afraid you'll die alone', but she was thinking of it. Reaching up, she dried her tears with the tips of her fingers, making her cheeks pink from rubbing. "How can you stop tutoring me, when my voice is nothing _like_ perfect?", she began softly, eyes imploring as they gazed into his own. She could see him, slowly withering away down here, alone, frustrated by people and their shallowness - of which she was guilty herself - driven to madness or despair or any number of horrible emotions. She liked him best when he smiled or was contentedly happy around her, and even if they'd met under strange and deceiving circumstances - even if she found herself in love with Raoul at the same time as knowing Erik felt something for her - she didn't want their acquaintanceship to end. Or whatever their relationship could be called. "There are other operas," she insisted, "other parts… There is still Carlotta. But ..." And here was where she needed to choose her words carefully. "... I would still want to see you, Erik, even if you grew frustrated with tutoring me."

Glancing away from her, he studied the ground - anything but her at that moment - and prepared to counter her words, at least until he looked back to that tear-filled gaze. His own softened some, and he nodded gently with a ghost of a smile upon the corner of his mouth. "I would never become frustrated with tutoring you, Christine. And your voice _is_ perfect." Pausing, he absently moistened his lips, then continued. "But I am sure I can try to find a _little_ flaw here and there, just to continue tutoring you." Even though he dearly wanted to be more than just a teacher. That could never be, though, no matter how much he dreamed of it. Her face brightened considerably and, for once, she didn't hide a bit of it. "I'm sure it won't be hard. My posture can be atrocious at times - there's that! And I don't practice as often as I should, and when I do, I don't always warm up properly, and I'm _sure_ my acting could be better. And my tone, Erik! You know it can be terribly flat."

"Your tone is just fine. It was your pitch that needed the most work – though even that has become well done." While her acting could use a little work, that was something he couldn't help her with much. Being a vocal teacher was easy for him. The only acting he had done was before small crowds that laughed and jeered at him. Lowering his hand to the surface of the couch surface, he pressed up, feeling just a tad more sober than he was a bit ago. "I will make that tea instead. Perhaps some food as well?" Watching him, she nodded. "You'll eat something, too? Even if only a little?" Wiping the rest of her tears away, even though her eyes were still wet, she looked hopeful that he might at least make himself a smaller portion of whatever he would make her. "I'm afraid I am just a little hungry." Smiling a bit sheepishly, the corner of one side of her mouth rose more than the other. Her lips were fuller and pinker from her tears, though her eyes showed hardly a sign save for the wetness still trapped on her lashes and the rims, shimmering as her gaze shifted searchingly.

He drew his eyes over her face slowly, lingering only a moment upon her lips before his gaze found her own. "I will try," he conceded, dipping his chin in a nod, then turning a bit too swiftly away to make his path toward the kitchen. He already knew what to make: something simple yet filling, and a bit sweet as well. Sinking into the darkness of the kitchen, he built a shadow to chase away the shadows. Finding herself alone with Erik's gentle humming from the kitchen, she sat still for only a moment before drawing herself up. What she needed in order to really make the tears stop was to distract herself from thinking of Erik in this house that was to be his tomb. She moved into the library, smoothing out the soft wrinkles that had formed as she sat in the dress, and hummed a song of her own while running her fingers over the volumes of books. They had finished Arabian Nights, and she was anxious to come up with another story to occupy their time here, though she was thinking of asking Erik for a trip to the park tonight when it was dark enough - though how he could tell that was beyond her. Though it was morning to her, she had the suspicion that it was already mid-afternoon.

Able to smell the food as he prepared it, she glanced towards the door as her fingers hovered over an ancient collection of German fairy tales. Her eyes were finally drying, and for a brief moment, she let her thoughts move towards a strange image. One that consisted solely of Erik. As a husband. Particularly, as her husband. After all, he had everything she would really want in a husband - he was kind to her, he could cook wonderful meals, he enjoyed the things that she did, he was clean and proper and wealthy - and it was all shattered by the thought of where he lived and what lay behind the mask. She had never considered herself shallow until she met him, and now she felt like a low creature who didn't deserve Erik's regard. Glancing back to her book, her fingers skipped over the binding, moving to the next, a collection of folk tales from other countries. She picked it up, looking through it, trying to pull her thoughts entirely from Erik for a moment. Even as she skimmed the words, however, she found her thoughts clouded, and glanced frequently behind her, towards the library door.

With the crepe-like thin cakes rolled and sugared, he set some cups upon the tray, then picked it up to make his way back into the living room. Not seeing her there, he paused, glancing to her room, then over toward the library, doubting she would be any where other than those two spots. Seeing her once the angle of the doorway came into view, he studied her quietly as she read, then stepped in further to the piano. "Would you like to eat in here?" So caught within the words upon the page, it took her a moment or two to glance up, rosy lips smiling. "No, that's alright. I was just glancing through a few books." Closing it - she was still on the first sentence of the first page - she moved to replace it where she found it, sliding it between two older volumes, and moved out with him into the main room. "It smells wonderful!" she exclaimed before she even saw what he'd made.

"It is just a little recipe I found. They're called Norwegian pancakes." He regarded the rolled lengths of sweet bread and chuckled softly as he made his way back into the larger, cavernous room. "They look like crepes to me. But either way, they are delicious." Making his way over to the table, he lowered the weighted tray carefully. Placing her plate nearby, he slid his own to the couch and prepared the tea. He added sugar to hers and lifted the cup with thin fingers, offering it to her. Sitting down, she accepted the tea from him with a thank you, she raised it to her lips. Inhaling the warm fragrance, she tipped the cup, sipping the warm liquid with a contented sigh, eyes closing. After a moment, she opened them again and began to eat. Taking a cue from her silence, he fell to it as well, absently watching her while she cut into the rolled pastry.

"Could we visit the park tonight?" Breaking the silence after several minutes passed, her plate half emptied, she glanced up to him.

"Of course. You would have to dress warmly again. I believe it is still snowing." Pausing the cup before his lips, he nodded then set his plate aside and leaned back against the cushions.

Crossing his arms loosely over his stomach he tilted his head slightly, drawing his gaze up along her form, lingering over the unbound curls of her hair. There were times when he so desired to pass his fingers through them. She was ignorant of her beauty, that draw she had, and he had to suffer for it, especially when he recalled the smooth way her throat felt beneath his fingers, the light beating of her pulse that only became stronger...faster. He forced himself to glance away from her, over to the fireplace, absently watching the flickering of the flames held captive by the stone. _That's how it was, wasn't it Erik? So much fire and it was held captive by your own stony insecurities. _Inwardly glowering at the cynical voice, he shook his head faintly.

"I haven't sung in days. Perhaps I should...?"

"I would enjoy that, immensely. To the piano, then? Or perhaps you would like to sing without accompaniment?" He nodded toward the library as he leaned to gather the empty plates. Pressing to a stand, he approached the kitchen and placed the dishes on the nearest counter. "I think I may need the piano to keep me on key," she answered with a soft laugh, rising to move towards the library, lifting her voice lifted so that he could hear her. "I haven't so much as glanced at music since I last saw you, I'm afraid, so you'll have to be overly-patient with my slouching and bad tone." She was teasing, of course, because it was never as bad as she made it sound.

"You have not been practicing as I had told you to?" He lifted a brow as he returned to the sitting room, then made the detour to the library. She was already standing near the piano, clearing her throat faintly. Guiltily. He had given her freedom from her lessons for near to a week, and during that time with Raoul she hadn't sung more than she needed to. "No ... not really. The weeks before were intense, Erik," she began weakly, shrinking faintly beneath his intent gaze, as if he knew. "I wanted to relax." Nibbling upon her lower lip, she glanced away from him. His eyes remained upon her, looking through rather than at her. He drew in a slow breath and nodded. "Intense or not, it is good to at least sing a bit every day. A week of no practice could do more harm than good. We will start with the scales." Sitting upon the velvet cushion, he lifted the keyboard lid, pressing it back into the piano.

Nodding to him as she moved in front of the piano, she stood still, recalling all too vividly the dream in which she had sat beside him. Closing her eyes briefly - to banish or treasure these thoughts? - she began upon her scales after he gave the starting pitch. He began low, allowing her throat to form the sound easily before he directed her to the next key - mid C, then up toward E and G, then higher. He didn't take her too high, though; not so soon. As she sang he watched her quietly, then drew his eyes to the piano, spreading his fingers across the keys. He, too, had closed his eyes, listening to the sound of her voice before he began playing. It wasn't anything from _Hannibal,_ or the soon to be performed _Il Muto_ - not even from his own libretto, but a simple tune from Mozart to help him warm up his fingers. "Do you have a particular song you will sing for me tonight?"


	6. The Calm Before

"Nothing in particular, no," she answered, opening her eyes to watch his fingers on the keys. "Something simple to start?", she smiled warmly, her voice nearly singing even as she spoke. He gave it some thought then nodded slowly with a half smile. "How about a folk song?" This was becoming a pattern for them, spending several minutes trying to figure out a song, but once chosen it tended to be a good one. "Do you know Scarborough Fair? That is one I have not heard in many years. It sounds better when it is played on an ocarina or a lute, though…" Glancing down to the keys, he absently plucked out the tune. "Or…" He pursed his lips slightly, dampening them and, closed, thought of another song he would like to hear her sing. She nodded, smiling as he played. "That's a lovely song. I could try to do it justice." The words were easy enough - she'd had them memorized since she was a little girl. He nodded, focusing more on the movements of his fingers, and began playing the gentle melody, she humming an accompaniment to the opening measures.

_Even humming her voice is beautiful. _Before he had begun to tutor her, she had been spiritually flat, and now her very croon would make angels weep. There was no doubting Erik had truly helped Christine. Without him, she would have labored dully on forever, hitting notes in her sad, childlike way. Now, she concentrated, and even if she still slouched on occasion or missed a pitch by the slightest margin, she was undeniably closer to perfection especially in the way she read meaning into the lyrics, and sang with true emotion. He closed his eyes, listening to the soft, lilting sound of her voice as his fingers skimmed effortlessly across the keys. This happened to be one of his favorite songs. It was hopeful, yet the melody was at the same time haunting in its own gentle way. He couldn't help humming along, but kept his voice quiet so it wouldn't overshadow hers.

It was undeniable, this pull between them when they sang. Perhaps music was Erik's greatest chance at Christine's love - or her realization of her love and her true passions - for only in music could she begin to _see_ things instead of merely looking at them. He let her complete the last verse before finally cutting off the music and sliding his hands away from the keys. His voice silenced as well, drawing down to nothing as he smiled faintly to her, then gestured toward the tea, knowing she probably needed something to soothe her throat after such a long song. Lowering a hand to the bench, he leaned his weight against it slightly and drew his feet away from the damper and sustain pedals. Tucking his feet beneath the bench, he crossed his legs at the ankles and tilted his head to the side. "Your voice is as beautiful as ever. Though you must remember … always practice at least once a day. Even if it is a single scale."

Smiling to him with a nod, she murmured her thanks as she lifted her tea. Watching him for a moment as she took a few sips to warm and loosen her tight throat, her eyes roamed over the space on the bench next to him. Would everything remind her now of that dream? Noting that she was looking at the bench he glanced to it, then lowered his hand to pat the cushion, inviting her to sit. She took the invitation and slid beside him as he slid his hand from the cushion and back to the piano. He plucked a few keys, absently melding them into a random song. Bringing his feet forward again, he settled one against the sustain pedal, making the notes draw out longer, creating a soft harmony. "The rehearsals for _Il Muto _will begin when you return. I do hope the managers will come to their senses," he murmured.

She drew her attention from his fingers to his face as he spoke, realizing that in her dream, he'd been without the mask - and it hadn't mattered. "I'm sure they will choose whoever is better for the role, won't they?" she asked. She didn't really want to think about the managers or the notes and threats Erik had sent their way. Would he send more if they continued to cast Carlotta? Erik's fingers paused, then he nodded, returning to his playing without further hesitation. "Yes, of course." _If they know what is wise for them. _Slowly dampening his lower lip, he pursed them thoughtfully, then shook his head softly. He hoped that they would be wise. "Nevertheless … I will have you sing as the Countess while you come here." His Christine - cast as the mute? He would be beyond furious if that were to happen. Perhaps his temper could be staved off if she were given only a minor role - _perhaps -_ but _completely silent_? It might have people focus on her acting skills, but that wasn't what he wanted. He wanted them to remember her for her voice, not for the novelty of wearing a pair of trousers on stage.

He tilted his head slightly, paying no attention to what his hands were doing, and settled his attention quietly upon her. His thoughts began to travel again, back to the last time she had sat in that very same spot.He turned his head back, watching his hands with a slow exhale. "Well. We have sung our song for the day. Or at least one of them." Chuckling gently, he closed his eyes, swaying gently to the rhythm of the music. "Perhaps we shall start upon a new book. Hm... maybe we can think of something new. I am afraid I am not the most exciting individual." His smile faded slightly and he glanced sideways at her. "I'm very simple, Erik," she responded, tilting her head to the right as she watched his fingers caress the keys - fingers that had caressed places no one else ever had, so gently, curiously. It made her breath catch a little to think of it, but she did her best to hide it with a soft laugh. "My life was always made up of reading, singing, and rehearsals, with dinner and sleep mingled in the middle somewhere."

"Sounds a lot more exciting than my own." He had to find something else to do with his life. Though it was late, he was old... he was realizing just how dull his life had become. He used to travel, to see the world - now he was stuck within this tomb, this underground crypt with only the water to keep him company, and the flickering of the myriad candles. He lifted his eyes to gaze upon said towers of wax, watching the flames dance in the unfelt breeze. Shaking his head softly, he looked over to her again. "And you are hardly simple," he mentioned vaguely. No, she was a complex woman, at least to him. "And your life isn't so dull," she mentioned with a sad little smile, wishing she could show him that she meant her words. "You've done a great many things, haven't you? You've only just begun to tell me a few of them, and those were so exciting… You've traveled, Erik. How many people have traveled as you have? I certainly never will." Pressing her fingers to the higher keys as he continued to play, she plucked out a plain melody using mostly white keys. "After all, your life isn't over. You could travel again, couldn't you?" Christine had the amazing ability to be able to overlook the greatest physical flaws in him one moment and the next be unable to focus on anything else. She had quite forgotten his age and his face for a long moment as she played with the keys, adding a little trill delicately. "You don't have to be trapped here."

A somber smile crossed his mouth. No, his life wasn't over yet, but he was getting to that point. Perhaps that was why he was so desperate for ...this. For something so normal as sitting down and playing music with someone. Singing with them. Reading books until they both fell to sleep. And so much more. Rapidly spiraling into a darker mood, he silently attempted to pull himself out of the nose-dive. "I do not have to be, but I am." Looking up at him sadly, her fingers hesitated on the keys, perfectly destroying her serene melody. "You shouldn't be, then," she stated firmly, though still rather meekly by most standards. She wished Erik wouldn't keep himself down here. "You insist on staying...but you've stayed out most of your life, haven't you? You were not born underground. It would be easy to find somewhere... more secluded, if you wished, you know." Picking up the melody to distract her, it grew somehow a bit more somber now.

"No, I was not born underground, but I might as well have been." Raising one hand from the keys, he scratched his jaw just below the edge of the mask, then dropped his hand again. Continuing with the nameless song, he nodded slightly. "But yes... I have traveled plenty of times. Mostly it was out of necessity rather than pleasure. I could do so again, though it would be difficult for me. Perhaps if I had a young woman to help me along, I could have someone catch me should my old hip give out." The side of his mouth gently rose and he glanced at her. Christine didn't know whether to laugh or not, but glancing sidelong at him, she found she had to. The image was silly, as she couldn't imagine any part of Erik giving out like an old man. He presented himself as being so much stronger than that. Laughing as she shook her head, her fingers rose to gently hide her lower lip. "I doubt very much that you'd need someone for that purpose," she answered. "And if you're falling apart all over her, I'm sure the young woman wouldn't feel appreciated as she should."

"I suppose you are right. I would have to keep from falling apart on her, hmm? Though having one at my side would not do any harm. For just-in-case purposes. She could be there, always prepared to catch me should I suddenly collapse." With the lightening mood, the music also changed. He was doing well in dragging himself out of the slumps. He didn't want to sit there in self-loathing, ruining the time she spent with him, though it was half of what he would actually like. "I suppose it would be a good idea then," she allowed, "for just in case purposes. I suppose that's why I'm here, hmm? To pick you up should you fall." Drawing his fingers across the keys slowly, he ghosted a touch as if he were playing some familiar tune, and her hands slid from the smooth ivory. "I have fallen already. Severely and painfully," he began, keeping his eyes upon the keys. He started playing again that same pattern he had mimicked. "I am simply glad that nothing was broken. " _Not yet anyway … Just cracked. _Perhaps it could be mended. It would only take her to do so.

Slowly dragging her gaze from his fingers, she glanced at him, frowing a bit curiously at him, then half smiled and laid her hand on his wrist. "I cannot always tell when you're teasing, Erik," she murmured. "Am I a bad judge or are you too good an actor?" He had stopped playing when her hand drifted out toward his wrist, and raised his head, turning his eyes to her. A quiet smile passed over his lips. "I believe both, my dear. I believe both." Pulling his hands away from the keys, he lowered them to his lap and splayed his fingers over the surface. "Though," he began, a hint of a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth, "I was teasing." A little white lie, the better to protect himself from saying too much. Again. Smiling freely now, Christine removed her hand from its place upon his wrist and nodded. "You don't have to stop. I didn't mean to stop you. That was lovely, whatever you were just playing." She hummed softly, trying to remember the somewhat elusive melody.

"Truth be told, I do not even know what it was I was playing." He tilted his head slightly, glancing to the keys with a low chuckle in his throat. "Sometimes that happens. Something comes to mind and it begs me to play it. It will keep nagging unless I do so. Sometimes music is like a woman in that aspect." Yes, music was like a woman … in more than just the 'nagging' aspect. One had to spend time with the notes, treat them accordingly or all would be a discord. Christine stole a glance at him with a childish widening of her eyes and a half-shocked laugh, shaking her head and looking away. "Not all of us nag, Erik," she managed to retort. "We nag when men don't give us what we want."

"Well then, I will have to make sure I give you all that your heart and soul desires just so you won't nag me." Chuckling gently, he brought his hands to the keys again. Recalling the melody he changed it just a bit, transposing it a step up, making the notes floatier. What had sounded so solemn just moments ago was made lighter, lilting. He thought about his words as he watched her from the corner of his eyes. Women were, indeed, like music. How could one that could be considered so simple inspire such strong emotions..? Joy, happiness, passion and pain. Letting his thoughts travel, he dipped his chin, eyes closing as he continued the gentle, nameless song. Christine knew his words were hardly a joke, she could feel the truth in them. Erik would indeed give her all that her heart and soul desired, though it wouldn't be to keep her from nagging - it would be to win her love, as any other man might have done. Turning her full attention to his face, she removed her fingers entirely from the keys. Her shoulders drooped as her breath slowed comfortably, watching the way he leaned into the music, as if he slid right into it - as if the music extended from his body. Perhaps it did.

"What is it you think of … when you are alone," he questioned out of the blue, not even quite sure himself why he asked. What was it of his business? Certainly while she was alone her thoughts were private, ones she didn't want any person to listen or know. He had thoughts like that. Probably more than he actually spoke. At times he let his music talk for him. A person could learn a lot from each note he coaxed out... if they opened their ears, mind and heart to _listen_ and not just 'hear.' Moistening his lips lightly, he cracked open his eyes so he could look over to her. She blinked once or twice in confusion as she looked at him, and when his eyes were on her, she became even more lost. "What do I think of?", she echoed softly, not sure how to answer. She certainly had her private thoughts, but she thought of everything - perhaps there was some answer she could give, though she assumed he wanted to know more than just basic every day thoughts. Did he mean, did she think of him when she was alone? Her porcelain cheeks grew a little bit pink. "What do you mean?"

A soft laugh passed between his lips and he turned to look over to her, a half smile still apparent. "I mean… what is it you think of? What passes through your mind while you are alone? Do you wonder about your future? Dwell upon your past? Do you think of silly little trivial things such as why male ladybugs have spots and females don't? Speak to me of anything. And perhaps I will give you a little secret on my own thoughts." Laughing in return, she turned her attention to his fingers on the keys. "I suppose, before this year, I thought of my past. Of my father, the way the shore looked when we stood by it hand-in-hand; of how I thought Madame Giry to be a monster when I first met her and her horrible stomping cane; how like a flower I thought Meg to be. Or a butterfly. Something pretty and a little distant. But now..." Tilting her head, she pondered for a moment. "Everything? That's not a good answer, is it?" She looked up to him with a soft laugh, then down to her own hands, taking in their graceful paleness. "My past at times, but those are the saddest thoughts, and I've tried to focus on my future more. Of music, the opera." As if she couldn't decide where to look, her eyes rested upon his again, a softness in her look. "A terrible many things. My mind is much a hummingbird at times," she added with a smile.

"You do think of much." A thin smile crossed over his lips. "The Madame is not all ice, you realize. She is only that way before the girls to keep them in line. It seems to work rather well." Nodding slowly, he turned his eyes back to his hands as they continued their touch along the keys. Inadvertently he was reminded of the way her skin felt beneath his hand and, closing his eyes, he unwillingly lingered within the memory. The way her flesh was - _she_ was - soft and pliant, the gentle bumps rising from chills. _God help me, why do I keep _thinking_ about that?_ He groaned inwardly. "I know," she murmured, finally settling on watching his fingers. Every note was caressed from the instrument with silky precision. Just as softly, she would bet, aswhen he'd touched her in her dream. "But I was more naive then," - if that could be believed - "and I thought horrible things of her. She helped me so much, and I'm thankful for her strictness." Erik's fingers were so lithe and graceful as they stroked the notes forth, and she lost a soft breath remembering her dream. "What do you think of?"

_Your voice, the way you smell, the feel of your skin, the taste of your mouth... _Clearing his throat, he lifted a brow and slowly dampened dry lips. "Hrm.." _Oh yes, that's eloquent and articulate, Erik. Try again. _"Well. Almost constantly, I think of music. But you perhaps know that by now." His hands had unconsciously drifted down the scale, sneaking away from the higher notes and drawing toward center and bass clef. He continued the gentle swaying rock of his body, keeping perfect rhythm to the music as it poured straight from his soul... and his imagination. Christine swallowed to wet her throat, wanting desperately to join in and sing, to share what was pouring out from his soul, but something in it frightened her. She was frightening herself. "You can't only think of music, Erik," she whispered, albeit a little more hoarsely than usual, her voice quivering. "Isn't there anything else?"

"I think... of the past. Of how things could have been different if certain matters were not what they are." This wasn't something he was going to dwell on, though. Not at this time. "Sometimes I think of fantasy lands. Of impossible creatures in imagined worlds. Of things …that cannot be." _Such as the very touch of your lips._ It was a thrilling thought, and yet at the same time... he didn't wish to taint such skin with his own. He shifted slightly, one foot coming from beneath the bench to press along the sustain pedal, dragging out the notes that soon began twining together, the lighter higher notes and lower tenor melding into one. Frowning softly, she could almost imagine his own thoughts as he spoke to her. _Things that cannot be_... She wasn't confused but melancholy over the thoughts running through her head, over the memory of his touch which seemed to seep into the music as it wrapped around itself, tangling into a beautiful vision of legs and arms twining and bodies pressed in the dark. "What about the future?" she breathed, her eyes closing before she knew it enough to stop herself. She couldn't help it - it felt so good falling into his music, so hauntingly good. As if the music itself ran over the line of her half-tilted neck, against her parted lips, into her mouth and out again. Too good.

There was something almost primal within the low, throbbing strum of the notes, his fingers betraying his thoughts, letting them letting them seep through his fingers. Though it started off low, still there was the undeniable 'feel' of entwining bodies, heated and trembling. In his mind he didn't hear a piano as he played - he heard the lone pass of a bow across the taut strings of a violin. One of these days he was going to test this song upon that instrument. Yet... softer, higher keys played into his mind's ear: the singular taps of the piano. Realizing that she had said something, he cracked his eyes open slightly, focusing on the flame of a nearby candle. "What about the future..?" he repeated, sinking that question a bit deeper. "I try not to think of the future..." _Perhaps his only future is his tomb here below the opera. _That was such a depressing thought that she dismissed it with a shudder immediately after thinking it. "The fantasy lands..." she murmured, trying to force her eyes open, but stopped, finding it much nicer to keep them closed. Her shoulders drooped, head tilting ever so slightly to the right, one thick curl coiling alongside her throat, tauntingly. "Like ones in fairy tales or...or your own imagined ones?"

"My own," he breathed out slowly, clearing his throat with a nod. "I tend to have a rather… vivid imagination." _Too damned vivid_. It wasn't her hair he was seeing drift across her throat, but his fingers. Rubbing the tip of his tongue against the roof of his mouth slowly, he soon drew into the second part of the duet, fingers drifting closer to where she was sitting. Thus far this piece had no lyrics. Not yet. He tried not to think of the tempting way her hair slithered against her neck, the way it tightened when she swallowed, and the soft quivering of her shoulders with each languid breath. She opened heavy lids halfway, looking up at Erik, drawing her tongue over her dry lips as her lashes fluttered. "What do you imagine when you play something like this?" Her questions were bordering on dangerous grounds now. She could, after all, feel the pulse of the song, the heated rhythm slowing drawing out, twining, melting against the tenor voice that she could nearly hear. Against such music, her own imagination took a sharp turn.

He sank a tooth into the flesh of his inner lip, trying to use the pain to bring himself back to focus, tearing his eyes from her to look back upon the keys. Eventually he closed them completely, the gentle sway beginning again as he drifted upon the notes, drawn by the seductive quality of his own music. She had to ask a question like that. It caused his stomach to sink down, plunging right into his feet. Running his tongue across his lips again, he shook his head gently. He had meant to say something, but couldn't bring himself to do so. He was almost afraid of what he might come up with. Instead he let the music speak for him; the notes were his voice. As much as he wanted to add to it the ghost of a hum, he left his throat still and silent. For now.

Christine's heavy eyes could only remain open a moment more before they closed slowly, and she swayed gently back to her previous position. She still wanted to sing, but she held back only because no words would come, and the part of her that was still conscious of everything around her didn't want to ruin the song with so much as humming. Blood suddenly thrumming through her veins, that low pulse of music drawn out so excruciatingly seemed to stop her breath, she pursed her lips, moistening them yet again - and once more when they dried again seconds later. The tingling sensation she'd felt in her dream wafted over her from heart to stomach to thighs, thrilling everywhere at once. Within her chest it seemed to burn against every beat of her heart, so that she eventually raised a hand to lay her fingers at the place it beat almost frantically, seemingly trying to overcome the music with its volume.

Still that condemning question remained upon his mind… what did he think of when he played music like this...? He wanted to answer her - wanted to go into great detail - but he feared her reaction. He couldn't bear to see the look of horror that might cross her face, or the uncomfortable cry she might give to be taken back to the surface. How he wished he could liberate himself, free everything that weighed so heavily on his mind, and his imagination. But then, if he could, his music wouldn't be as passionate - or would it…? This... impassioned melody was the only way he could safely have her, writhing beneath each grinding rhythm, each reverberating and pulsing beat. If he could _love_ her just as heatedly, as fiercely as these very notes… neither of them would be able to come up for air, would be left to drown within the tide of their lusts. A lust that coiled even now within his very being, a tightening spring that was precariously near the edge of snapping. It was only the low timbre of his voice that calmed the raging fire just enough, as he hummed breathlessly along with the slow, seductive caress of chords.

_Actions speak louder than words_, whispered the little devil on his shoulder. _Why don't you just take her and worry about finer points later_? He _could_... _No!_ No; She was far too aware. Last time he'd barely had to do anything before she'd sunk within that melodic trance. He could hardly think to even remember if she had been awake in the first place or not. Christine's body ached with the addition of his soothing voice to the insistently pulsing melody. Shuddering softly, she felt her own heartbeat kick up against her fingers. _Are there words,_ she desperately wanted to ask. _There must be words_... But it was too much. The music burned in ways she hadn't imagined anything _could_ burn, like his touch in the dream, probing inside her and all over her, twining around her waist, her legs, caressing the tips of her fingers, brushing her lips. If ever Erik could love her with the heat and ferocity of these very notes, she thought she might die of pleasure.

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_Once again, thank you all for your reviews! **sbkar **that "T, then it clicked." the comma and space was supposed to be deleted. Little editing mishap._


	7. The Storm

There was no denying the dull throb of the music running through his veins, matching the beat of his heart. It was still steady, languid, as if he had all the time in the world to savor every single stroke of his fingers along the smooth surface of the keys. Funny, they almost seemed… softer. Like flesh, pliant and malleable beneath his touch. All at once he recalled the stolen caress, and his voice locked up briefly. Nearly stopping the song, he cracked open his eyes and turned his head just enough to bring her into his line of sight.

Though alert, Christine was very much seduced by the power of the music's underlying throb, the melody inspiring passion where there had been none before. Poor Christine could never have given name to this emotion if not for Erik's music. _Passion_ was the only thing it could be. Though it was a bit hesitant, there was no innocence in it. Smouldering, each tone melted into the next in a torrent of liquid fire. All of Erik's passion was echoed in her drooping shoulders and her tilted neck, her fluttering lashes and her moist, parted lips.

It hadn't been his intention, but there she was, drawn inexorably into that unknowing haze once more. The music from before had been nothing like this. Before it had been... almost solemn, aching for the slightest attention. And this... was simply aching._ I love you so much my heart aches; I want you so badly that my body aches._ It wasn't until his imagination started running away with him that his breath deepened, as did the lyrical croon of his voice. How he would love to see her play the part of Aminta - though it would be too much for her... She was the epitome of purity and innocence, while Aminta was a player of hearts, a harlot who teased and taunted an even bigger hedonist. Oh, but when the two collide, when they would sing this duet, there would be so much electricity it would sear the very air. He kept playing though he'd reached the end, not wanting to stop just yet. It was torment, watching her within the throes of _Don Juan's_ seductive hold. _So this must be auditory rape_, he thought for a brief, cynical moment.

How beautiful it felt, to take possession of her body and mind through song. But would Christine have given herself willingly to this torment? Or had she done so already, by not asking him to stop when she had the chance? Her body certainly enjoyed every tender, tempting stroke, every musical thrill, and still her fingers fluttered over her breast, longing to trace down beneath the silk and lace that separated her from him. How every part of her ached to fall shuddering into the agonizing bliss of his melody! Quietly, a sound something like a low whimper tangled inside a moan escaped her lips as her breath caught roughly, chest heaving.

The soft sound raked a fierce chill up his spine, spreading over the rest of his body, and he had to bite back a low sound of his own. He should stop; he had to stop, but he just couldn't bring his fingers to still. He had once told her that this libretto _burned_, and this now was just the tiniest _taste_ of its power. This particular song still wasn't finished - there was only Don Juan's section, and a part of Aminta's - but the combined voices were slowly weaving their way into the lyrics that had begun to form in his mind's eye. Along with the vision. There was no stage. There was but the two of them, pushing, pulling; giving no ground, yet gaining none either, until at last they succumbed to each other's will, clashing with such melting ferocity that it was dangerous. _Stop. Just stop before you do something you're going to regret! You have already touched the forbidden. How far would you go, drugged as you are now? _Did he truly wish to know?

She ached for his touch. Her mind began screaming at her: _Why doesn't he touch me? Burning, raw... why doesn't he _soothe _me?_ The other half of her thoughts were trying to force her eyes open, but she was beyond such escape. And at last her fingers drifted, down over the swelling curve of lace-covered breasts, over her smooth stomach, then lower still. Oh, if he stopped now he could save _himself_, but Christine was past saving. Corrupted perhaps, less innocent than she would ever be again for realizing where her body needed her fingers, where the throb pulled the most; the reason her breath wouldn't come - and when it did, it was so dry it hurt.

_Oh.. dear.. God... _His eyes traced the path of her fingers as they drifted down, following an invisible path over her torso and beyond. He swallowed slowly, exhaling a breath that felt hot enough to melt steel, along with the growling thrum of his voice. Still wordless, there were no truly complete phrases, but the longer he played, the more secure the notes were becoming. He lifted a hand from the keys, intending to stop the path of her delicate hands - but instead his fingers threaded between her own, becoming one with hers, and leading - being lead? - in that descent. Right and wrong were slowly losing their distinction. In fact, they may as well not have existed any longer. One-handed, he was only playing the rhythm chords. His voice made up for the rest. Breathless as he was, he was somewhat surprised that he was able to sing.

Touching Christine like this was unconscionable. And yet she said nothing, only started with a frightened flinch before calming again. Beneath layers of concealing white, her pale legs parted slightly, thighs quivering delicately as their entwined fingers nested in the thick ruffles of fabric, warm against her skin. She moaned again, unable to press their hands any further, but oh, she _wanted_ to. Her thoughts were half-coherent, frantic. _God in Heaven – why doesn't he touch me? _and _Help me pull away - My God, I'm too frightened to stop!_ warred in her thoughts, as she pressed their fingers more tightly against the maddeningly, blessedly obstructive fabric.

He'd worked up the courage to caress along her the top of her torso, but to go so far as this? He must be _insane_. Insane from the torment he was going through. And later would come the guilt. Or maybe even her hatred when she realized what he'd done… or nearly done. He drew his hand away slightly, bringing hers along with it... but it did nothing but slip liquidly back to its original spot, drawn by her own unconscious hand. Did she know what she was doing, that his hand was along with her own? No... no she didn't. She _couldn't_. She'd never let him do something so deliciously forbidden. He really needed to stop thinking so much and just... _do_. Swallowing slowly to dampen his dried throat, he closed his eyes as their combined hands drew down, skating over her left thigh, then centering. Nearly dizzied, he interrupted his song briefly to pull in an extremely slow breath, exhaling it with a near growl.

With a deep arch, their hands were smothered between layers of rustling fabrics. Her thighs, once spread, clenched firmly against the pressure with the sudden tightness of every muscle in her slender body. With a gasp, she felt every part of her burning. She turned her head aside away from him, almost convulsively throwing her body against their mingled caress. _More_. It wasn't enough. For the first time ever, Christine wished to demand something more for herself. It was not fair to be bound by the lace, wanting to rip it apart but lacking the strength to do so. Breath coming so fast she might have been gasping for air, her body shuddered with a wordless sob of frustration and maddened desire.

_I'm going to hell... If I wasn't before, I definitely will now. _There was no denying that, at all. He almost snatched his hand back at the reaction of her body, thinking that he might have somehow hurt her, but something kept his arm locked in place. It was curiosity that made him clench his fingers against her own, and press closer to the apex of her thighs. Blocked by cloth or not, it was enough to bring a low, muffled groan to his throat. Heat, undeniable heat. A thick swallow and he tipped his chin down, his eyes closed still as he lingered within that sensation. Dear God, if just this 'simple' touch could cause such a response, how would her body react with other touches? Thinking about that now wasn't the best thing to do; he already ached so badly that it was painful. It had to stop; he had to stop. But, oh, he didn't want to. Setting his jaw firmly, he pulled his hand up, giving resistance to her clenching hold, testing it. He had to retreat, and retreat _now_ before he really did do something he'd regret later.

With a wild motion, Christine meant to hold Erik's hand trapped, but gave up with an uncontrollable sob nearer to a moan, letting him retreat. She trembled, breathing heavily as her thrashing eased without the pressure of their hands to build it. What she _wanted_ was to grind against her own hand, to press her fingers to places she had never touched, and finish what his terrible, aching, loving song had started. Didn't he know it was maddening? How could he just…_stop_… after all that?

Just how could something sound so pitiful, yet enticing at the same time? His hand hadn't gotten far when that pitiful, tortured sound escaped her lips, and he glanced over her again, shifting his throat in another swallow. It was so dry, there was really no use in trying to dampen it - no matter how many times he attempted it, his deep, panting breath did nothing but make it worse, burning as if raw. He had already gone too far once - and he wanted to do so again. The feel of her skin had become like a drug to him, intoxicating, addictive. Curling his fingers loosely, he brought them slowly back to hers, slipping beneath her hand this time. Closing his eyes he allowed instinct and the seductive tenor of the song guide him. He tried to imagine himself as the great Don Juan, conqueror of the female body, an expert in the realm of caress and touch. He sought out the softness of her skin and, with some skilled manipulation of cloth, he was rewarded.

His hand had moved, leaving hers behind for with just the barest graze of his fingertips against her knee as he rustled the fabric of her petticoats. _Erik... _he tried to warn himself, but he truly didn't want to listen. He had gone this far... there was no going back now. If his fingers had ever been cold, they were scalding against the cool satin of her flesh now. He was nervous – nearly terrified – but to her, his touch seemed confident, assured. Her thoughts locked in a spiraling mantra, she trembled violently against the sensation of his bare skin, unencumbered by the leather gloves he so often wore. _Take me, take me, don't stop, Erik, please, don't stop… _And unlike the last time, she was awake. Vividly so. Feeling everything, yet saying nothing to stop him. It would take but a single word to put him from her, a simple '_Erik._' would keep his touch from her.

Shoulders shifting, muscles moving under pale flesh, her fingers hovered hesitantly over his own, then suddenly shoved his hand clumsily - though which way she wanted him to go was a mystery - torn between farther up her pleading thigh or away entirely. It hurt and it felt good. His touch burned, yet she knew it could so easily soothe her pain if only he went on. _She_ should stop him. _She_ should stop. _Stop it, Christine, don't let him go on… But it **burns**!_

He knew he should stop _himself._ He had paused as her hand hovered over his, stilling to see if she would press him away, or closer, but when she didn't move, he was the one that took that initiative. The piano forgotten, his left hand lay still upon the keys, yet the music was still in the air, wrapping about her senses, drawing her deeper and deeper still. It was almost blasphemous, the way the soft, white cloth bunched along the side of his wrist as his hand ascended. Only the tips of his fingers touched, gliding along inner thigh while the thumb caressed over the top. At first he had believed that she stopped him, finding his hand unable to go elsewhere, until he felt the undeniable heat so close to the side of his hand. He was almost too afraid to look at just how intimately close he was. While his eyes cracked open... they closed a split second afterwards.

He was almost hoping she would stop him, to give him a reason to force his hand away. At least he'd be able to blame it upon the power of the song. He still could, couldn't he? He'd warned her that he wasn't going to play anything from his libretto for this very reason. Not only did it burn - it corrupted, luring the soul to indulge its basest desires. Yes, he had warned her, but she was _so_ naive. How could she have known that it would end up like this, with Erik's fingers climbing the length of one smooth, virgin thigh? She was so weak, how could she control herself against the primal pulse of his music? However intimately close Erik thought he was, he was miles farther than where he should be.

Panting wordlessly, Christine's head was spinning, her mind trapped in this moment, and as much as she wanted to pull him away - to pull herself away - all sensible thoughts flickered away, and she was left with a throbbing emptiness that grew harder to bear the more he hesitated. She was burning, damp, and frightened. Even her thighs quivered, as her hips yearned to roll forward, the skin prickling deliciously at his touch.

The urge to go further was just as strong as the urge to pull away. He did neither. His hand was frozen - and yet burning – at her inner thigh, subtly trembling with the strength of his restraint. He was surprised to be able to keep the song within his throat, though it had changed now, a growled pitch left reverberating in the air. The forward roll of her hips dizzied him still more, and he clasped a hand against the edge of the bench to keep from tipping backward. His fingers curled, nails raking firmly against her supple, sensitive skin, drawing a soft whimper from her full, parted lips as his touch moved again - first in retreat, sliding a few inches back down toward her knee, then changing his mind, drifting higher. With the elevation of his palm came that of his heart, until he could barely breathe, could barely even hear his own voice. He had been so close and yet so far moments ago, yet something akin to instinct stopped him and, to his dismay, his hand couldn't go any further. Slick, moist and warm; he held his breath briefly, only to release it in a low, throaty groan.

There had been a time when he'd believed she didn't have the passion to play his Aminta. Perhaps he had been wrong in for that assumption. Months ago, before their lessons, she would have likely fainted – or died! - at the first caress of those chords. Some progress! But finally, finally, she seemed unable to take it any longer.

Everything happened quickly. First, her fingers seemed to fly to his, pressing them hard where they had been hovering. At the same time, her head drew back with a wordless cry. Double the warmth at his fingertips. Double the intensity of her heartbeat. But somehow she had torn herself from him but a second later, sliding off the side of the bench, her dress flowing around her as she slipped onto her knees on the cold floor. Bracing herself with one hand, the other still between her legs, she arched and sobbed and almost _sang_ each musical gasp and moan.

It was the sudden warmth then cold that snapped him out of the spell. With her no longer in his reach, he took ahold of the bench's edge, clasping it tightly before he lifted his fingers to the keys. All was silent then: the keys; him; only their heavy breathing broke the still air. Dragging in a slow breath, he swallowed thickly as a scent - her _scent_ - was captured. So close... So painfully close. The tension in his shoulders betrayed his restraint, the need to get away. Blazing, molten eyes of gold shifted toward her, and he shuddered at the trembling sight before him, her hand pressed flush, hidden beneath the voluminous white cloth. She arched, groaning in despair - and something more.

It was that agonizing sound that was his undoing.

With a sudden lurch of form, the heated weight was surrounding her, his mouth impossibly hot against her throat, his fingers digging in a play of surging chords upon ivory.


	8. Don Juan Triumphant

Christine bit back a sharp wail as, with a sudden lunge, his fingers sank home. She rolled her head, eyes tightly closed, panting sharply in a mix of anticipation and fear. And she'd thought she'd felt passion before she'd heard his _Don Juan._ 'It burns,' he'd said. What she felt now made her ashamed that she'd ever resisted his power- this was so perfect, so right... _Oh, no music could ever feel like this! _...yet at the same time so very wrong.

She fell back beneath the weight without resisting, her heartbeat rising to choke her as she struggled for breath. Burning fingers shoved the yards of rustling fabric aside almost roughly, tearing the delicate lace when it stood in the way. _At last... thank God... _The young woman found nothing blasphemous in calling on the divine being as slender fingers, hesitant for only a moment, first brushed her tender, moist flesh then made it their own. The press firm, insistent at first, drew a soft impassioned cry from her lips before the stroking tips eased, teasing.

So much for attempting to hold back- it was far beyond the moment where she should have stopped this, and now she was incapable of resisting even had she wished to. As she glanced up to his face through the veil of her tousled hair, the lambent glow of his golden eyes scorched her - clearly he took as much pleasure in the delirious sensations running through her taut body as she did. The patterned stroking of his fingers slowed slightly as his eyes narrowed, trained on her face. She made a small cry, fearing he meant to stop, then closed her eyes again rapturously as the rhythmic pattern picked up again, heightening.

His eyes never leaving her flushed face, his own breathing as hot and ragged as her own, he could not have stopped now even if he had wanted to. As she writhed sensuously beneath the touch of those burning hands, no longer even attempting to keep control of her escalating desire, he thought she had never been more beautiful. Her back arching, another impassioned moan issued from between her moist lips: his name laced with the gasped breath. "_Erik_!"

He groaned deeply. Fingers shuddered upon pliant, heated skin. Tense hips rolled, and the weight between her thighs became almost unbearable. "Erik... Erik _please_..." How could he deny such whimpered desperation? Fingers continued their steady dance, drawing away to manipulate the cloth, exposing the flesh beneath. There was an agonizing lull, one that drew a soft whine from her throat as her senses screamed with frustration, then all at once he poured over her in a rolling crescendo that left her breathless. Their voices combined, his a deeper, growling lilt compared to her gasping cry, drawn to a sharp staccato with every pulsing thrust. She writhed upon the Persian carpeting, wanting to escape, yet at the same time longing to be consumed his elemental heat, his undeniable passion. painful, enthralling.

"_Christine..."_ he hissed, the sound echoing within her ears, mingling with the music that was his voice. She arched deeply, her fingers finding firm skin and sinking deep, leaving half moons cut into the pale flesh. Her head drew to the left, her hair covering her face from that soul-searing gaze, and helplessly she sank within the swelling tide. Dizzied, her fingers sought out the depths of thick strands and she pulled, drawing a heavy groan into the air, that pleasurable pain enough to heighten the bucking cant of hips. Shuddering, he closed his eyes, the grasp he held upon her tight still and with a pass of molten breath he broke the rhythm.

"Don't stop! Oh God _don't stop_!" she cried, her fingers again finding searing skin and embedding deeply. Unabashedly, she raised her hips, meeting the resisting weight, enticing him to continue, and with a low pitched growl from his throat the euphoric pleasure found her again, wrapping her in a blanket and making her ears ring with a music she swore that only she could hear. The weight of her eyelids seemed heavy as she cracked them open again; finding his own impassioned gaze, she stiffened, her back arching harshly as his rhythm again changed - an unrelenting tempo that left her cheeks warm and wet with the salty lick of tears. She writhed against pinning hands, her groans becoming wordless entreaties, entwining erotically with his own - then silence as her breath caught.

Colors cast a brilliant burst before her eyes and she felt as if she were falling, sinking deeply in all that he was, an abyss from which she had no chance - no desire! - to escape. Just when she hit the bottom, she was wrenched up again and left floating. Legs twined, and though it shot white-hot sparks through her core, she continued the steady rocking of her hips, drawing him into its rolling caress toward a shattering climax, leaving him shivering, his arms clasped around his stomach, his body hunched deeply over the keys before him. Now all was quiet, the heavy silence broken only by their combined breathing.

_Don Juan_ had indeed triumphed, revealing to her just how deeply the music could burn.

A minute ticked by, then another before he finally cracked open his eyes to stare at the keys - those evil, betraying keys - then his golden gaze shifted over to her. She lay motionless upon the floor, her hair fanned out, damp with her sweat and clinging to her flushed cheeks. She moaned low within her throat, just the weight of his eyes enough to draw a reaction. The ruffles of her dress were draped across her upper legs, buckling in an inverse V toward her thighs, her modesty maintained only by her concealing hand. She didn't move it. She didn't move at all. Her every breath was agony as it tore through her lungs, her breasts heaving raggedly, restricted by her white gown. She had succumbed to him, even if only in her mind.

The spell had been broken, and now she was reluctant to drift back to reality.


	9. Past The Point Of No Return

There was a battle within; desire and guilt warring against each other. One of them defeated the other the moment he heard a choking sob pour from her throat. Closing his eyes against the pain that shot through his chest, he turned his head away, inwardly cursing himself - his weakness, his very existence.

All was still again as disgust twisted her stomach so deeply that she suddenly wasn't able even to cry. What had he done? What had _she_ done? She jerked her hands away as if seared by her own skin, thrusting the cloth down to again conceal herself, curling in upon herself with a heavy shudder. How could something so good feel as though it had violated her very soul?

"I..." what was there to say? There was only one thing he could think of. "I... I am so sorry." _No you're not. You enjoyed it. _He had- but, as always, any bliss he'd ever found was destroyed one way or another.

Her eyes opened, glancing slowly up, finding only his tense back as he slumped helplessly over the bench. Humiliated, she looked away. Could she answer him with anything other than a quiet, tearless sob?

He couldn't tear his mind from the image of her sprawled helpless on the floor. What would she do now? Even _thinking_ of her pleading to go home made his stomach twist and his heart splinter. Lowering his hands, he clasped them on the outside of his biceps, clenching so tightly that his nails bit into the skin. He swallowed again, working down the knot building in his throat. He had to go, to get up and go into his room, and lock himself within. Or have her do so, and bolt herself inside. But he couldn't move; discomfort and the painful tension of his muscles paralysed him.

She tried so stand, but her thighs trembled in protest and she sank down again, her hands fisted in the crumpled fabric of the once-innocent dress. Another glance at him made her stomach tighten. Afraid of the desire she had felt for him in those breathless moments, she still couldn't bring herself to speak, maintaining her silence even as he drew into himself. Terrible, _awful _music!

Stiffly, he loosened his hold, prying his hands from his arms, bringing them down to the sides of the bench. Pushing up slowly, he kept his face turned away from her as he made his way from the library into the oppressively empty living room. Turning toward her right now building… just wasn't an option. He knew she surely felt disgusted with him now- something that he was sure would increase tenfold if she saw the evidence of his desire. His overpowering guilt was such that he couldn't even glance back at her. He pressed open his door, but instead of entering, he stood, resting a shoulder against the frame. A single glass of brandy had calmed his nerves before; he felt now as if a whole bottle might be a good idea. He wouldn't, though. That would be the move of an alcoholic, trying to drown his problems, and he just wasn't like that. _Oh, but you can sit there and rape her with song, can't you? _Where just minutes ago that teasing little voice had been urging him on, it now laughed at him. He winced sharply.

With her eyes focused on Erik's strong back and the line of his shoulders, Christine watched him go. Loneliness replaced disgust, and she felt sicker for his leaving than if he had stayed there in that tense position at least until she had calmed. Her tears came on suddenly, and she bowed her head into her palms to muffle the sound. Too many feelings wracked her small body and her shuddering mind. In a flash her thoughts were on Raoul and his chaste kisses, the easy way his fingers twined in hers without asking anything more, which only made her sob harder. _Raoul_! How could she have forgotten him for so long? Would he freeze waiting for her every afternoon on the rooftop, their only refuge from the bustle of the opera house and this darkness? Would he forgive her- if she could even begin to describe what had happened?

His shoulders flinched at her muted sobs, and he pressed further into the room, closing the door behind him. Though she sought to muffle it, his keen ears could still pick up the sounds of her despair. Having been so long alone in this lair, he was in tune to every single sound, and that one echoed the loudest. Pain shifted toward anger - not at her, but at himself. He couldn't believe he had done such a thing, _touched her _without her consent, then proceeded to rape her with his music. She couldn't have told him to stop, not while he had such a hold upon her. _Or could she?_ That was a thought that would plague his mind forever. He would never know unless he asked - and _that _was something he would never bring himself to do. Settling at his desk, he placed his elbows against its surface, buried amidst piles of parchment, settling his face again within his hands. Mockingly cold, the mask pressed firmly against his distorted flesh.

Every sob, every choked breath, drove the nail deeper into his heart, until he loathed himself so much that he was unable to meet his own reflection within the mirror. _That_ particular problem was shattered easily enough. The sobbing continued for half an hour, during which time Christine was unable to move. She simply sat there like a doll that had been carelessly tossed aside and left for days. Soon, however, the tears ceased. She realized that she couldn't sit there forever. The dress felt tainted, _poisoned_, against her skin- her undergarments, too - and she wanted to change. And to bathe again first; though how many baths would it take to cleanse her? She knew that wasn't it. What she _really_ wanted was for Erik to come back in, to say, _Let me make you some tea, my dear_, and go without any further words. Couldn't it all be forgotten? Or would they both spiral helplessly, drowning in obsession over the acts of these past few days? Certainly, the latter.

Stifling her sniffling, Christine stood, leaning for a moment against the piano for support, eyes closed. Opening them again, she sought her way out of the library, down the small hallway that led to her own room.

She paused, glancing at his closed door with a frown, her mind churning. _Why_ had she agreed to stay here with him for a week? With this caged-up passion boiling her blood only when he was around? It burned, scorched her virgin flesh. Slipping into her own room and pulling the door closed, she stared a long while at the bolt- the bolt she had wondered about on her first night here. With much hesitation, she drew it, then unbolted it again, chewing at her lower lip. She bolted it again. She returned to it again two minutes later, drawing it a final time, then sat on the edge of the bed with a sigh. The reflected image in the mirrors startled her - three mirrors, offering every unflattering angle of her tears, reddened eyes and pale cheeks, and the tell-tale disheveled skirts. It was within that moment that the cry of abused glass echoed through the cavern. The bottle of brandy went into one, also shattering; the other had a more fleshy bludgeoning.

It seemed an eternity before he left his room, feigning a calm he did not feel. Slipping into the kitchen, he attempted to fix his disheveled appearance, to no avail. His shirt was rumpled, untucked from his slacks; his belt hung free. He buckled it, then lifted his fingers to press them through the bedraggled strands of his wig, adjusting and shifting it. Dragging in a deep breath, he set to work preparing the water for some tea. Tea made everything all better, didn't it? He wished that were so. Once finished, he carried the tray to the door, setting it off to the side so she wouldn't inadvertently step on the cup when she finally left the room. He carried his own cup over to the couch and sat stiffly, back stiff, cradling the cup in his long fingers. He stared absently stared into the fire, watching the flames dance and writhe against the captive stones. What would he do if she asked to be taken back? Would he let her go, knowing she would run straight to Raoul and his comforting embrace? His innocent kisses that soothed all her fears? Or would he keep her here for the remainder of their week together - because, after all, _she_ had insisted she should stay?

It was some time before Christine emerged from the silence of her room. She had heard him settle the tray outside her door and thought perhaps that was a hint that it was all right to come out. The promise of tea for her dry throat was another thing that lured her out. She took the time to wash her face and hands first, cool water soothing her tear-streaked cheeks. She doubted they would remain so unblushed upon looking at him. Donning a heavier, more modest gown, reddish in color, she emerged slowly, stooping to pick up the tray. She carried it into the main room, settling it upon the table. Sitting carefully, studiously trying not to look at him, bringing the tea immediately to her lips swollen lips. As she had feared, her cheeks burned, tinged pink.

His silent reverie was broken the moment she entered his line of sight. Focusing on her instead of the flames, his shoulders slumped slightly in defeat. His guilt doubled - not only because of what had taken place, but for of the color of her dress. Did she think she was stained now? A harlot? Faintly he shook his head, forcing himself to stop looking too deeply into things. She had left her room and come to him when she could have just as easily picked up the tray and went right back into her room, bolting the door. Raising his cup, he tipped it slowly, drinking down the tea, his eyes drifting back to the fire. He should have stuck with his first idea, to refrain from singing for her. Now he felt as if he had no other choice.

"Are you hurt, Erik?" she asked, focusing suddenly on his arms, then the fingers of his hands, searching for blood or bruising, remembering how the second crash had been more muffled than the first. She knew it had been glass - one of his mirrors, likely - just by the sound.

_Hurt? Oh...of course. _"No. I am quite fine, my dear." Even those words felt tainted now. His arms were fine. The bruises were covered by the linen. His hands – that was a different matter altogether. It wasn't his knuckles that had been splintered with pieces of glass, but the sides of his hands - invisible, at least until he lifted his hand to take a drink from the tea. The cuts were small and fine, and he'd cleaned them up quickly enough, needing something to do to occupy himself. He shifted the cup, hooking a finger into the handle and exhaling slowly.

Erik was used to silence, though at times like this, it felt stronger than usual. Resting back, he crossed one leg over the other and looked down into his half-filled cup. Swirling the contents slowly, he brought it up again, swallowing down the last of the tea. Cradling the cup, he curled his fingers around the delicate porcelain in a striking contrast to the iron grip he'd had upon his arms earlier. Brushing the tips of his fingers against the smooth surface, he did his best to keep from remembering the way her skin felt. It was easy, for the time being - because along with that sensation came the gut-twisting guilt.

Christine looked away, swallowing another sip of tea, and curled her legs beneath her, warming her fingers along the lip of the cup. She was _not _so used to the silence, and it grated slowly on her nerves. As she sipped, she glanced to him, taking in the droop of his proud shoulders, following the sloped lines down the length of his arms, to the very tips of his long fingers. Guilt didn't begin to describe what _she_ felt. Nothing could describe the sensations – those that had swept her earlier or those swirling within her now. She could not come with a single thing to say as she studied him.

"Erik…", she finally said, her voice no more than a gentle whisper. He lifted his eyes from his cup and turned their dulled gold to her.

"I… I want to go home."


	10. Musings and Mannequins

_Hey all there. First I'd like to apologize for not updating sooner. Health issues, betraying muses, and other situations I'd rather not bring public have kept me away from brainstorming. I was going to just leave it where it was at, but I couldn't on the threat of being beaten with my own violin. :Blank look: Right. I wouldn't like that, she's too important to get broken, so here goes. I hope I can keep the flow going and your interest. Thank you again for the reviews and constructive criticism!

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"I… I want to go home."

Never was it known that five simple words could bring such mixed emotions; pain, anger, relief among them all. His eyes remained upon her, seeming to burn through her skin even as she turned away, staring down at her cup of tea. Suppressing a shudder, she closed her eyes, biting at the inside of her lip. How could she? How _could _she!After what he had given to her, what he had _played! _He had explained that _Don Juan_ was forbidden, and now that she has heard its haunting melody she wanted to leave him!

_It was too much for her_, he relented. _Oh, Erik, you have frightened the poor girl._ From hot to cold with such sudden switches, it was a miracle that he hadn't gone mad. Moistening his lips slowly, he parted them for an intake of air, audible enough to make her flinch. Did she expect him to suddenly snap at her? She'd had a taste of his temper, before when her little betraying fingers peeled away his pride in one swift motion, and for a moment he regretted having frightened her so.

_No! Damn you, no! Do not begin lamenting_, that damnable little voice snarled. _It was _she _that tied you and cut your hair, Samson! You had every right to be angered, and now... now you have only repaid her by stripping _her _of her own defenses._ It was a convincing thought. Over his lifetime he had believed within the policy of 'an eye for an eye.' Why should he change it now? He had felt betrayed and humiliated when she had exposed him for what he was - a grotesque monster - and while he hadn't done the same, there would still be the sense of embarrassing pain, perhaps. When had he become so irreversibly cynical?

"Erik..?" Dragged from his thoughts, his wolfish eyes focused upon her again. Upon meeting her glistening gaze, everything within him froze. She was crying because of _him_. He hated to see her cry; she knew this, and often he wondered if she used those easily-shed tears to sway him. Tonight he wouldn't be so easily manipulated. He weighed his options as he watched her. As the oppressive silence continued, she nervously drew her fingers over the bow of the cup's side. _Why is he so quiet?_ she thought, afraid to glance up lest that provoke his irritation that had been so easily riled many times before. His anger was a fearful thing, especially when it was preceded by an incredible, eerie calm.

Christine wasn't smart enough to have been rational when she first heard his musical voice lifted to her from the shadows of the Opera House. She wasn't smart enough to stay away from him when he was enraptured in his music, possessed by his own composition, so deeply intoxicated that he didn't sense her approach, not until it was too late. She wasn't nearly smart enough to avoid his gaze or simply hand him back his mask; her fingers had clutched it as if it was her only lifeline. Quietly looking upon her reflection within the tea's surface she lifted her hand to her neck, touching her throat gently. More than once she had wondered what would have happened if she didn't back away from him within that impenetrable silence. Still she had been trapped, held by his gaze, glinting as furiously as molten gold. Frightened beyond measure, her retreat was stopped by a wall, and with a predatory stalk, he had cornered her. She was sure that if it hadn't been for her weeping and pleas he would have strangled her then and there. His fingers were so close, cold as death against her neck. But even with that terrifying memory, the chill that coursed over her skin, making her shiver faintly, was caused by a more recent recollection.

"Bois de Boulogne," he said. This time it was she yanked from her thoughts, and she looked at him with a wide-eyed and uncomprehending stare. He met it equally, one visible brow rising.

"Wh- what?" Drawing her hand from her throat she cupped the fine porcelain between her fingers, one tucking within the small handle. His lips twitched, and she wasn't sure if he was about to smile, sneer or smirk, or perhaps all three.

"Bois de Boulogne," he repeated, patiently. "We shall go to the park, and then I will take you home." His remark seemed so awkwardly random that her mouth opened, only to snap shut again. She didn't know what to say… Wouldn't he be worried about people seeing him? About others staring? Leaning forward to place the cup upon the table, she shifted her folded legs then slipped them from beneath her, resting her feet upon the ground. He watched her as she stood, the decision weighing heavily on her mind. She wanted desperately to go home, to clear her mind of the numerous confusing things – _feelings_ – that lingered. But at the same time, the thought of a night trip to the Bois thrilled the excitable nature of the woman-child. Worrying her fingers before her, she glanced over toward him, her brow furrowing in a faint frown. "You will… take me home afterwards?"

"That is what I had stated," he said evenly, his eyes still resting upon her. Sometimes the way his gaze seemed to lock in one place, hardly moving, unnerved her - yet at the same time it was flattering; his attention rarely wavered away from her. Berating herself for having such vain thoughts, she nodded softly. "I would have to put on something warm." He returned her nod, easing from his seated position to press to a stand. Mid-way he placed the cup upon the table, then smoothed his hands along his shirt and slacks, absently straightening out the cloth. "Yes. The moon is full; the ground is covered with snow..." His voice trailed off as his thin shoulders lifted and fell in an absent shrug. He laced his fingers together, ignoring the faint sting of tiny open cuts upon the sides of his hands. He had been through worse; much worse. The bits of split skin were but a candle to the infernos he had faced. "We will take a brougham. I am positive the driver would not question a late-night venture." If they could find a driver. With it being almost midnight, the drivers might have already sought their beds. He truly hoped not. A walk would do him – them – good.

Christine couldn't hide her smile at his words. _Near midnight, under a full moon, walking upon crisp snow._ It was quite romantic, like something out of a storybook. As she remained standing, her eyes lingered on Erik's form, studying the lines that made up his back and shoulders. His posture was far too graceful to be a mere man, yet tense enough that it looked as though he waited for someone to strike him. He was much like an abused feline in that respect; ready to claw, but composed enough to hold back. "I should go change then," she murmured after a long moment of silence, glancing down at the house dress she had on. While it was comfortable and warm to lounge around within, it wasn't suitable for a winter's night. He nodded again, sliding his hands into his pockets in what could have been a relaxed manner, if it wasn't for the perpetual tension strung tight across his shoulders.

Without further thought, she nodded and, smiling, rushed towards her room, quite like a child excited at being allowed to stay up past her bedtime. He watched her quietly as she hurried off to her room, and then turned his attention to the tea. Gathering the cups and placing them upon the tray, he slid it from the table and carried it back into the kitchen. Once out of the kitchen, he collected his jacket and cloak to take into his room, then began searching for something warm for himself to wear.

Once in her room, she closed the door gingerly and moved to her closet to search for a proper dress. Everything Erik had chosen for her was of the finest material, so that it was almost impossible to find one dress that was better than the rest. She finally settled on a dark blue one. Erik knew that was her favorite color, and it looked wonderful on her. Readying herself with pantalettes, chemise and corset, she layered more than a few petticoats on top of all those. The dress came after, and as she tightened it, she looked herself over in the nearby mirrors, to admire the way it fit so well even - around areas that were never measured by tailors.

As she looked at herself in the mirror, he did the same. With his thick waistcoat buttoned over an elaborately designed vest, he meticulously pinned his cravat in place, tucking the folds into the neckline of the high-cut cloth. Smoothing out the wrinkles, he looked upon his image - only to glance past to the painted likeness of the woman in the other room. Sliding his cloak from the mirror's edge, he draped it over his shoulders and began fastening it into place as he studied the ruffles of lace and silk that made up the pristine gown. Waves of expensive cloth flowed over the floor, fanning in a mermaid's tail across the unfeeling ground. Drawn in the middle to accent the figure, tiny glinting jewels dotted the shallow, dipping V of the neckline. She would have looked so beautiful in it.

"_Erik? Erik!" she had cried out, thinking he had left her room. Everything had hit her at once; the travel down into the depths of the Labyrinth, the clothes that perfectly fit her form, the shoes that were comfortable upon her feet, even the room – _her _room – designed with a multitude of things she enjoyed, down to small keepsake baubles. It was all overwhelming. Her legs released beneath her in a swoon, and her untimely faint was saved by his sweeping arms before she had a chance to hit the floor. He remained beside her as she slept, rising only to approach a trio of covered mirrors, before them... Her image. She had been immediately sorry that she called for him, for he was caught gently brushing his fingers along the porcelain jaw of the mannequin. The look on his face... The simple bliss as he caressed that strange doll with _her_ appearance. Was _that_ what he wanted? To see her in a wedding gown at his side? _Married_ to him? She felt the blood draining again as the image of his long fingers caressing the mannequin's face swam before her eyes. He was... so gentle with it, as gentle as he had been the rare times he touched her. _

_Startled out of his reverie, he had immediately come to her and knelt at the side of the bed. "I am here. I have not left." Though it seemed she was startled, he couldn't help but let the faintest of smiles come to his lips. In that moment of desperation, she had called for him. She had needed him. "I... I thought you'd gone..." She had glanced up to him, then over her shoulder toward the draping curtain. "No... I merely got up for a moment. My legs were becoming stiff. Unfortunately, I had not the foresight to bring a chair in here." He spoke lightly, trying to bring some humor into the awkward situation. Her glance brought an easy half-lie to his lips. "Do not mind that old thing, my dear. It is one of the prop gowns I was mending for a performance of Aida." He shrugged. "The costumers are supposed to do such things, but it gives me to do something with my time. Besides, I would not trust them with such a task."_

_Christine studied the gown as he spoke. It was too far away to see if it was tailored for her as the others had been. And even if it was, that could be because he expected her to play the role someday, nothing more. Still, she was unnerved by the face of his mannequin. Was it a coincidence that the gown was for her and the face was her own? She looked into the reflection, into her own eyes and the eyes of that doll, and frowned. "Is it really only for Aida?" she murmured, turning her eyes back to him, searching his face and mask. She had believed him when he said it was only because the costume girls were silly and couldn't hem to his exacting specifications – they had proven their inadequacy numerous times – but she knew it couldn't be just that. Where had he gotten such a thing? Most of all, the 'why' was still strong within her mind. _

He had winced inwardly when she asked that question. Glancing away from the dress and the mannequin, he looked upon her quietly. He had told her too many lies already. Exhaling a slow breath, he closed his eyes and turned his head to look elsewhere, settling on the rich fabric of the bedspread. "No." The single word was so quiet it might have been just a breath. Shaking his head gently, he returned his eyes to the mannequin and studied it for a few moments. There was nothing else to say. He simply waited for her reaction. Horror, disgust? Laughter, perhaps? He couldn't bring himself to meet her eyes.

Though he had looked away, she still studied him and the disappointment in his soft, amber-hued eyes. His answer was soft and simple, and he didn't need to explain any further. Her mind was already running wild. She gave no real reaction, other than frightened silence and the soft trembling of her body. Did he truly mean to bring her here only to sing_, or did he have something else entirely in mind? Did he expect her to wear that gown, to live out this fantasy with him? What priest in all the world would marry them, once they looked upon his face? Yet, he had never tried to force her to do anything she had not wanted to do. He had offered her the chance for freedom back to her world of light earlier by asking if she wanted him to be her Angel still. The only time he had been anything other than sincere was when she provoked his anger – something that was entirely her fault. She felt her tears and wiped them quickly, not wanting him to see, though the hitch as her breathing caught gave them away. "Does it...have to be in my room?" she asked tentatively, studying the way the blankets curled about her feet. She drew them close, her knees bending toward her chest as if she had expected the... thing to come alive and attack her feet. It was a childish thought, but one she had nevertheless; too many stories of goblins and ghouls, perhaps._

_"No... No, of course not." He shook his head gently, and pressing up to a stand, stepping over to where the mannequin stood. "I'll rid of it immediately." There was something hurt and cold hidden within his words, perhaps because he had noticed the growing tears and her trembling, knowing that the mere idea of wearing such a thing around him was the cause of it; the audacity that he'd even dare to think of it. Him, _wed_? To _her, _of all people? A dream – far-fetched, silly and impossible. Curling an arm around the mannequin's waist, he lifted it easily from the floor with a slight scrape of the metallic base and made his way for the door. He'd put it someplace she wouldn't have to see it. His room was probably the only place she wouldn't go. _

_She wanted to take her words back the moment she heard the scrape of the mannequin's base. Erik hadn't been sloppy any other time, and that just seemed... strange; off, somehow. "You don't have to... to..." She turned her teary eyes to him, fingers poised at her mouth. "You don't have to destroy it," she managed to whisper, misunderstanding his words. "It's only... well, I can't bear to wake up and find ... it looking back at me." She felt even worse for going on, but couldn't stop herself. Her fingers trembled as she shifted, looking away, half-wishing he would go with it now and throw it in the lake, wedding gown and all. Or burn it so the horrid thing could never be seen again. "It frightens me, Erik."_

A wry twist came to his lips, reflected within the smooth surface of the mirror. "Yes. Yes of course it does," he murmured to himself. Tugging the soft hide gloves upon his hands, he curled his fingers then drew away from the mirror to make his way back into the living room. She was already standing there, bundled warmly and ready to leave. After giving her a slow glance, ensuring she was well-protected from the cold, he nodded gently then made his way toward the library and the exit that was secreted within. "Come," he muttered. She gave him a curious glance, then looked over her shoulder to the portcullis before following without argument. He knew this world better than she, and far be it from her to suggest that they should go the 'usual' way.

He had once said that mirrors were a part of his life, even if he disliked the thought of looking within one – they were a reminder of the curse he bore. Much about him was still magical within Christine's mind, and when he had gone to the mirror on the wall, opening it as if it was a door, she couldn't quiet the soft sound of delight. It slipped gently from her lips, drawing his eyes to her before he motioned to the darkness that lay beyond. Bowing her head gently, she stepped past him and into the hold of the enshrouding shadows, which only became darker when he closed the mirrored door behind him. Though she couldn't see her hand before her face, he saw her clearly. Hesitating, his fingers hovered just upon the outside of her elbow, then he touched, taking a loose hold to lead her through the passage.

"How many ways out are there?" she whispered, wincing at the dreadful way her voice echoed against the walls and low ceiling. The darkness was harmless. It was what was within the dark that worried her. But with him, the one she had most reason to fear, she felt strangely safe. Erik wouldn't harm her, she knew; even if it seemed he had come close to doing so before, it was only because he had been severely provoked. "Not many." The deep thrum of his voice vibrated gently within her chest, and she held her breath for a split second, then exhaled in a gentle rush. Trusting him to lead her, she sought out his arm with the soft wrap of her hands and closed her eyes. It was so dark that it made no difference if they were open or not. So dark that she failed to notice the way he was looking upon her as he walked, failed to realize the incredible urge he felt to sweep down and taste the ambrosia of her lips.

Little did he know... Christine was hoping he _would_.


	11. Au Clair de Lune

Not once did he have to pause, these passages he knew by heart. He made the plans for them, after all. Once they were generous distance from the lair, the subtle sound of rushing water seemed to surround them as they went directly beneath the nearby river only to dip back up toward the surface again. Pausing then, the sound of metal to metal filled the still air as he unlocked the heavy gate, then pulling it open he lead her through. From darkness to light, the fresh air traveled down the remaining length of the tunnel, made crisp by the drawn winter. She had been very quiet as they went, hardly making any sound at all, and he might have thought he'd lost her had her gentle grip not been so ever-present on his arm. The moment that light began to stream through towards them, even dim as it was this time of night, Christine smiled. She could already breathe the fresh air. Letting go of his arm once he led her through the gate, she slid her fingers into her gloves. The air was so crisp around them, the moonlight transparent through thin clouds outside, snow still fresh on the grounds.

Gathering the deep hood, he tugged it upward, covering his head, protecting his ears from the sharp bite of the gentle breeze. Easing the hem of the hood forward to further conceal his face, he took in a slow breath, gathering the freshness of the air. Compared to the air of his home, this was very invigorating. Seemingly coming from the shadows themselves, they would finally exit not too far from the side of the Rue Scribe. The land was covered with ground, only a inch or two, but with the flakes that were falling it was soon to be more by time morning would come. Where he made no sound below, the ice under his feet faintly crunched with his weight. The hood of her own cloak was brought up as well once they exited completely the labyrinth of dark passageways, ill concealing the curls that escaped, falling over her shoulders and chest. Drawing the cloak around her more firmly, she glanced up at him, almost taken aback by the dark sight in such a light atmosphere. It would have been frightening to anyone that might have passed them by -- a beautiful young lady in a warm blue gown accompanied by a man shrouded in darkness with dark gold eyes hidden in the cloak's hooded shadows -- but Christine had almost grown used to it. The cloak with its elaborately beaded collar was familiar, as well as the way he tipped his head against the light to find the best angle for hiding in shadows.

It had become so natural to him that he hardly even noticed that he was doing it. Taking a moment to gather his bearings, mostly to figure out just where the carriages would be at this time of night, he began walking in the direction of the nearest stop. His pace not too quickly to leave her trailing behind, he tried to keep with her own stride, cutting down his longer some so he'd be able to do so. Finally the silence was broken as he observed the surroundings. "Sometimes I forget how drawing snow can be." Turning his head slightly he glanced down to her, then forward again as they began coming closer to one of the main parkways. Tipping his chin, he searched through his pocket for the francs he'd need to pay for the carriage's cabby. Christine walked slowly, taking in the crisp night air. It was so fresh against that of the underground world of the Opera House. Wondering quietly how he could live all the time down there, alone, she followed him towards the carriages, of which there were far fewer out than had it been the daytime or even early evening. She had snuck out a few times with Meg this late, but that was only when she was quite a good deal younger and knew nothing of how dangerous it might be for her at this hour, without a chaperone. Moving away from him just slightly, her eyes roamed the distance. The streets of Paris were always more beautiful at night, somehow. The soft-twinkling lights of a sleeping city under fallen snow...it was quite magical to a girl her age.

The opera house looked so large against the night sky. He always admired the way it appeared, especially within the moonlight, surrounded by snow. He gazed upon it quietly, then turning his head around he continued his path to the lingering carriage. The horses were covered against the chill, and the driver looked to be bundled within several layers of cloth. Once they had reached the carriage, he lifted his hand and opened up the door for her before drawing closer to the driver. Ensuring that his features were covered from most sight, he dropped the heavy weight of a franc against the wood of the seating, waking the man with a sharp start. He peered down toward the cloaked figure, then scooped up the coin with a bite to it. "Bois de Boulogne, Monsieur." Destination given, he moved to the stairs of the carriage to climb in himself. Closing the door behind him before resting near her side, the driver snapped the reins, and with a click of his tongue started off to the park.

Christine stared off into the streets of Paris for a long moment before she climbed into the carriage quietly, studying the way Erik moved and talked in public. He didn't seem nervous about being out, or antsy. He acted as he would any other day within his life of darkness, though there was still that paranoia. Always careful of exposing himself too much to strangers, else they would be curious as to what laid behind the mask. He had no intentions to be listening to the screams of terror from others. Settling her skirts about her, her eyes were on him as he sat beside her, and she did wonder what she meant to him at that very moment. In the world she was used to, this world of light and clean air and smiling faces – however masked those were of true intentions -- what would their relationship be? Erik had insisted it was tutor and student, but he had done so with a look in his eyes that said more than the words off his lips. Looking away with a smile as the carriage moved, she leaned towards the window to look out. "It's beautiful tonight. Almost magical, isn't it? With all this snow and such moonlight."

While she looked out of the window, he rested stoic and silent. The mouth of the cowl turned slightly, drawing back from masked jaw and cheek. He glanced beyond her to what laid beyond the window, then slipped his gaze to her again with a subtle nod. "Very beautiful." Doubled meaning, one of which was held vaguely and easily over looked. Easily overlooked by Christine, certainly. There was nothing that gave his secret meaning away to her. He would likely have to come out and say the words literally for her to understand them, after all, which might have been why she took so effortlessly to Raoul. He was one to say his feelings outright; like his touches, his language was sure of itself. "There is word that it may snow all month. Last year there was not much. Unfortunate that."

Glancing back to him, she smiled brightly and nodded. "I would love to see that." And then turned her attention back to the world outside of the carriage. Often he had asked himself a series of questions, mostly centered around her. Such as why did he bother to try when he had no idea of how to deal with a situation like this. He was rarely given compliments, and those that were given to him were often met with bitterness and a snide tone. Compliments weren't there anymore once they saw his face. Couldn't take, and didn't know how to properly give. With her young mind she probably didn't grasp the concept of the hidden meaning, and truly.. he was glad. Quieting down, he looked toward the wall across from him, and folding his arms across his stomach, the fingers of one hand curled against the cloth, kneading at it lightly. The park wasn't too far away, he would never be at a great distance from his home, and glancing briefly out of the window he could see its beginning and surrounding gates.

Christine's hands settled in her lap and almost like a dance of their eyes, her gaze turned to his nearly the moment he looked away from her. She watched him and then leaned forward to try and follow his gaze, and a sad sort of smile lifted on her lips. "It is not often that you leave your home?" she asked, almost more tenderly than she'd ever asked anything of him. Slowly, she was beginning to understand what a life like his must mean.

"No," he responded quietly, the hood shuddering slightly with the shaking of his head. Steadily drawing from a canter to a trot, the horses were then walked toward a stand still. "We're here, Monsieur, Madame," though he hadn't seen her, he heard her voice within the hollow of the carriage. Glancing toward the slit of a window that separated them from the driver, he shifted closer to the door to press it open. Lowering the stairs, he stepped out, dropping to his feet, then lifting a hand, the gloved fingers splayed gently, awaiting her own palm to be placed so he could assist her down.

Still a tiny frown marring the beauty of what could have been a smile, she forced her lips to raise a little as she scooted close to the door and set her feet carefully on the steps, fingers falling into his easily. After he had helped her down, she breathed in the fresh air, fixing her hood slightly as the snowflakes landed on the curls of her hair that escaped. Pressing up the stairs and shutting the door, he turned around to look over the park. While it was simplistic he always enjoyed the sight of it. Most of it was wood, thin enough where a person wouldn't get lost. There was a large lake, already frozen over, as well as an elaborate fountain. The gates were yawned open, and between the grates he walked, urging her to follow with his slower stride. Dampening his lower lip, getting rid of the dried sensation that lingered upon the skin from the chill of the air, he turned his head to look over to her, studying her reaction to the sight of this place.

Following him, she stayed very close to his side, so that her shoulder nearly brushed his own as she walked. She didn't wish to stray far from him, though in the park, there was little chance of her getting lost. She had been here only a few times, with Meg and the other ballet rats, but never this time of night, and her face seemed to light up at the awe of nighttime. It was only in the day that was suitable for girls like her to wander about, so that was what she was used to, but the darkness held a whole new world for her. A little frightening at times for its newness, but otherwise she was surely charmed. Finding his eyes on her, she looked up to him, curling her fingers along the cloak's side hem to keep it securely around her for warmth. "Do you come here often when you do come out?" Still that timid, quiet, musical lull to her voice.

"I have. Several times." He nodded gently within the shadows of the cowl. Drawing her close to the wood, he lured her to follow, traveling further within. He knew where he wanted to take her, some place 'magical.' Just the thought of taking her there was enough to warm that chill of ice in his chest. "It is said that when it snows, and ice crystals hang from the streets, nymphs and fairies come out to dance within the pale light of the moon," he began quietly, just the beginning of a tale to be woven. "Graceful and melodic, they flow along shadow and light, between trees, just out of the corner of one's eye." He glanced over the grove as the amount of trees began to raise, but it was still comfortable for them to walk without running into a tree or branch. Tiny ice crystals hung like stalactites from the bare branches, and catching the light of the moon, they shimmered gently. Lifting a hand, one finger crossed over his lips as he spoke, his voice hushing. "If you listen, you could hear them now." It didn't take much effort for him to throw his voice, but he did, and if she happened to listen as he told her to, she'd take note of the jovial song that gently echoed off in the distance.

Raoul might have needed to take her arm or hand or face to draw her in, but Erik need only speak, for when he did, it was enough to enthrall the girl beyond what taking her hand might have done. It wasn't just his voice though; it was also the story he told. Surely he knew her weakness for fairy stories, especially the ones dealing with actual fairies, and while she was far too old to believe that they really existed, her eyes widened beautifully at the first mention of their dance in the light of the moon. Her lips parted, breathlessly exhaling white smoke in the cold air, and she nearly felt she was breathing too loudly and would miss their song, and then a sparkle of ice caught her eye, and it was at that moment that Erik's voice was thrown, and to her, the very icicle she was watching twinkled in time to their song. Glancing to him, for she _knew_ it had to be a trick – though she really didn't know at all, for his lips didn't appear to be moving – her smile crept up slight more on the one side. Gazing at him in awe, she turned her eyes to where their song came from, raising both hands to her heart.

When she cast a glance to him he gave a gentle smile, then let it fade away when she looked out to the forest again. "We must keep quiet, or we'll end up scaring them off," he lowered his head, enough where the edge of the cowl would brush against her own. His voice was all the more quiet, even as that song continued. Just how? Perhaps it was just her imagination, because there was no sure way he could talk near her, and sing far away at the same time. Then again, there were those who could drink water and sing. "The fae are beautiful creatures. Wings like dragon flies, glistening wet rainbows that glitter and sparkle with every flutter. They were gowns of silk, spun by the very beams of the moon. Can you see them. Look, there is one." He lifted a hand, pointing off in the distance toward what was only a larger length of jutting ice. The moon hit it just right, and with their walking, it almost seemed as if they were fluttering wings. "The nymphs are often harder to catch. They can lay upon snow covered branches and you would never know they were there until you have ice dumped upon you. Devious little creatures they were." When he quieted, the gift of his song seemed a bit louder. They were drawing close to the glen he wanted to show her.

Christine felt her heartbeat flying away without her. It was almost too exciting, waiting to see the nymphs and fairies dancing through the park. And the song was still there, even as he talked, which drew her in further, so that she glanced from Erik to the ice and back again, trying to disprove him and finding nothing that could do so. But her soul had given up to believe in fairies, and at his prompted pointing, her gaze caressed the icicle that seemed to take the very shape of a little girl with dragonfly wings, beating swiftly and then not, then swiftly again, shaking dew-dropped rainbows from her tiny shoes. Mesmerized, she did not look to Erik again, but breathless surveyed each passing branch with enraptured ecstasy, breath heavy and heart full. If he broke the spell, she might cry for the lack of it. And did her pace seem to pick up just slightly as the song grew louder? As if they were truly drawing closer to the magical creatures, yes, her footsteps increased in earnest.

There had been a time when he had promised himself that he wouldn't enthrall her to his voice, and after earlier events that promise should've been renewed. But there was there was nothing wrong with drawing her into his little fantasy world where all was safe and that once they left the wood it would be over, she'd be nudged back into reality.. into the nasty truth of whom and what she was with. The more her excitement built, the deeper he sought to draw her, and the softness of his voice changed within an enshrouding lilt. It was only one fairy she'd catch brief glimpse of, though as he walked with her, another flicker came to sight, and another, surrounding them more as the moon's light broke through the canopy. They were almost within the bare 'ceiling' area of the glen, and that was where all of the ice crystals would capture the unbridled light. Lifting his hand he brushed the hood back, letting it rest listlessly against the back of his neck. Watching her as her steps built, a faint smile crossed his lips, and now that her attention wasn't focused upon him, he closed his eyes and continued singing. He had suitably been dubbed as the Angel of Music by her. It was rare someone could reach different broad ranges, and the voices off in the waning distance were certainly too light and delicate of a falsetto to be from his throat.

It was easy to be drawn into such exquisite imaginary places when his voice took over in her mind like that. The shroud he let fall over her claimed every inch of her, so that no thoughts were outside the safe little world he'd constructed for her here, with fairies and mischievous nymphs. The moonlight caught another icicle, then another, and Christine felt as if she might cry it was all so beautiful. It seemed as if more and more fairies flew by, their sparkling wings glittered at the tips by snowflakes and bits of ice that caught the moonlight just so. If he could make his mother believe that a little porcelain statuette was a human boy, it had to be frightening just what images he could construct with that voice. Hypnotizing, he could take any tired or weak mind and twist it to his liking. If she had been well rested and well aware that night he was behind her mirror, he might not have been able to capture her, and though she was wide awake now, she was just exhausted enough where he could weave this incredible world for her. Only for one other did he do such a thing before he placed the poor child out of his misery. Let him go with a smile upon his lips.

The final steps would have her breach the tree line and enter the very glen he was leading her to. Here the voice was strongest, as well as the flickering images of flickering wings. Branches cracked and ice crystals gently shattered from the weight of snow, but they could have been nothing more than the tinkling laughter of these fleeting images. To his eye the glen was bare, a broken tree covered with snow and ice, leaning to an awkward angle was set near its middle.. but to her... The snow fell just so in the glen, the moonlight hitting everything just right, so that it wasn't only fairies and nymphs dancing about -  
- it was a whole world opening up before her tired eyes. To him, to reality, it was only a glen with a broken tree and crackling ice, but to Christine, it was the most magnificent playground in the world. Every icicle Erik saw fall was another singing fairy to her, tiny pairs of wings fluttering to catch the lights of Paris, with tiny gowns and shoes and locks of hair longer than their bodies flowing behind them. Her fingers curled around her lips, eyes searching and wide. Stopping, she couldn't move and was afraid once she did, she wouldn't be able to see them anymore.

"Oh _Erik_..." came the cry of utter hopeless desire, fraught with barely-contained physical ecstasy. For the moment, she was content to listen to their happy midnight song and watch each crystal bust against the ground, only to spring to life a hundred more fairies in its dust. He didn't have to see. The look within her eyes and the bright smile on her face was enough to please him. Stepping into the clearing, he made his way over to the leaning tree to lower to a sit upon another portion of old, hollowed log. A tree long ago fallen and left to the ages to rot. He didn't care about the snow that he sat upon, or the crumbling bits of wood, only the way she marveled at every little detail she could make out. He closed his eyes, trying to imagine just for a moment what she might be visioning. A life time in the dark, he had to come up with an elaborate imagination, and rather quickly he drudged up a scene to mind. Though it wasn't winter that he viewed. With each touch of a fairy's foot upon a branch, the snow melted away and a bud or leaf blossomed within its wake. Every where, white turned a vibrant green until the whole glen was covered with flowers and grass in just a manner of minutes. Though it was night, he could almost feel the heat of the sun upon his face. It was no surprise that these very suggestions entered the melodic tone as he continued the breathless, wordless song.

Green moss replaced the ice and snow, flowers sprang in place of dead trees and fallen branches, and icicles melted away under a summer sun. The cold chill of the night was all but forgotten, and she went as far as to lift her hood and let it fall back, snowflakes catching upon her curls to mimic the glittering stars the makeup and wardrobe women had stuck in her hair just earlier this evening. Or was it last night or a month ago? No thoughts of anything but this place were on her mind now. Cautiously, she took a step forward, then another, looking down at herself to see no cloak or gloves or shawl but a summer's dress of a lighter yellow, the sun kissing inches of skin that could not be shown in winter.

He didn't wish to keep the hold upon her for too long, and as much as he'd dislike to break her from it, he did so gently. Reaching up and taking a hold of a larger crystal, he gave it a sharp tug, breaking it from the branch that it was upon. Easing to a stand, he drifted a bit of suspicion within the lyrical sound, fairy becoming aware that they weren't quite alone. He imagined it clearly; the first darting away into the forests, the branch that it was upon sealing over in snow again. Then another, bringing dots of pristine white to once brightly lit grass of green. Slowly he lured her from the dream, keeping just enough of a hold for her to be drawn into the flight of the little creatures. Again, light and jovial, curious, he stood before her, his fingers cupped against the thicker end of the icicle. He tipped it just so, letting it catch the light as the curious winged creature drew close to her face, then after a peck of a kiss, the tip of the ice coming to a quick tap to her noses tip, the beauty fluttered away with her friends, and the illusion was softly shattered with the ice hidden, cupped in his hand.

Christine stopped moving the moment the first fairy flew away and her fingers stuttered forward, as if she could grab them and halt their flight from her. But she'd broken their graceful spell, and the moss and flowers grew over with snow so thick, she couldn't believe it had ever been green before! The look on her face was positively heartbreaking as her eyes centered on the last tiny fairy that fluttered towards her, catching the moonlight just so. Almost sleepily, she reached for it, though what she touched happened to be Erik's knuckles, just as it kissed her on the nose and seemed to disappear as she blinked away the iced feeling it left behind...and the tiny drop of moisture that beaded on her nose. Fingers drawn away, she found herself face-to-face with Erik as the dream departed, and she wiped her nose with one swipe of her fingertip. Silently, she let out a breath she must have been holding since the first fairy had flown off.


	12. A Cold And Broken Plea

_The last chapter was inspired by a song, "Moonlit Stroll," made by a friend of mine, "Angelinme."

* * *

_

Soft was the breeze that caressed the glen, making his loose cloak shudder gently, flickering across the ground and his feet alike. He said nothing at first, but allowed his half-smile to speak for him before he glanced away from her and looked slowly around the clearing. "They found out about you. Have to be much quieter. Perhaps..." Trailing off thoughtfully, he nodded, his golden gaze dropping to her again. "Perhaps we can try again tomorrow evening. The moon will still be full. I am not sure if we will be successful, though. It is usually only upon the very first full moon that they are out." He frowned gently and, shifting his freezing fingers upon the chunk of ice, he lifted his free hand, drawing close to her cheek – changing his mind at the last minute. "You enjoyed seeing them?" 

"Yes," she answered immediately, her gaze still resting contentedly on his, hardly noting the progress of his hand. Slowly she came back to herself, leaving with great sadness the dream which he'd so beautifully spun her with threads of moonlight. For a moment all she could hear was the sound of her own heartbeat pounding in her ears. "Oh, Erik..." She wasn't sure what she needed to say to him. At last she burst out, "How did you...?" She had seen puppet shows and magicians of sorts with her father, but none of them had been magicians in the way that Erik was. They'd only taken illusions and made them seem real -- Erik took real things and breathed them into illusions.

The backs of his fingers grazed against a lock of hair that peeked from her cowl. Pulling his hand back, he shook his head, another sly smile on his lips. "Do not ask. Do not allow the magic to be destroyed for you, or they can never return. Once you open your eyes and look, you can never _see_ again." Tipping his head back, he looked up toward the moon, closing his eyes as a few random flakes fell against his skin. He drew his head down to look at her, adjusting the lay of the cloak, drawing his arms beneath and discreetly dropping the ice. "Are you ready to return home? It is quite chilly out here, and I would not wish for you to become sick."

Christine blinked a few more times, slowly, and then shook her head, as if to rid herself of the lasting effects of his spell. It saddened her to come back to reality so quickly, though they might've been here for hours with only a few minutes passing in her mind. Finally, she looked away from him to the ground and moved a few steps closer, the tips of her gloved fingers straying to the tip of her nose. She glanced around slowly, taking in the soft, serene quality of the park this late at night. Even without the fairies and nymphs, it was lovely. Even without summer, the darkness was beautiful to her.

He didn't know if she'd find this reality beautiful, but he did. There was something simplistic about its appearance, yet the snow set it off toward the majestic. He stepped away from her with a gathering of his cloak's hood and pulled it back over his head. He wasn't ready to go just yet, but if she desired it, he'd do so; she was a lot more susceptible to the cold than he. Another gentle breeze kicked in, and he closed his eyes against it, one side of his cloak flicking back, half spreading akin to a bat's wing before settling down again, placidly swirling against the side of his foot.

The snow was still falling around them. She lifted her hand, catching a few of the flakes in her palm, watching them disappear. "May we stay just a moment longer, Erik? I don't want to leave just yet, if you don't mind." Glancing to him over her shoulder, she smiled. "It's quite beautiful here. This place, I mean. Not only the park..." Looking back down at her hand, she blinked away the snow that even dared to cling to her thick eyelashes. "Just here..."

"With you…" he murmured, then raised his voice slightly. "Yes. Yes, we can remain. It _is_ beautiful. I have come here often, to simply... get away from the caverns, to breathe in the fresh air; to feel it upon my face." _Half of it... _Even though this place was secreted away, he still wouldn't remove his mask - that just wouldn't happen. He didn't dare take the chance that some vagabond would somehow manage to find this place. His back to her still, he kept his eyes closed and chin tipped down. He might have been mistaken for a statue, he was so still and silent.

She studied his stance, moving closer. "Do you never remove your mask?" At that moment, it seemed a shame to her that he had to wear it at all. _If not for his reaction when I removed it..._ The memory of the sight of it still weighed heavily on her mind: the nose that wasn't there; the sunken eye that she could almost see behind the mask; the malformed cheek; the lip that curled and spread; the muscles and veins and blood and skull... She shuddered, though more in pity now than fear.

She'd shattered his serenity with that single question. He steeled himself and miraculously did not flinch, giving little to no reaction. He cracked open his eyes, lifting his head slightly and turning his glance towards her. "Some things are better left unseen." It didn't answer her question… or maybe it did. He never removed the mask when there were people around - not that he made it a habit to keep much company - even when alone he wore it. It was better than having to face his image whenever he passed a mirror; he'd lost too many mirrors that way. Sleep wasn't a discomfort. He'd gotten used to the feel of it upon his face, even if it did rub already-raw skin, making it more so.

His eyes followed her as she moved slowly to stand in front of him, studying the mask she'd so heartlessly ripped from his face, shattering whatever trust had been built between them before that moment. _Even if I broke the same trust by telling her I was her Angel in the first place._ "It doesn't frighten me anymore," she whispered. He didn't find that an invitation to remove the thing now - it could very well have only been her innocence talking, forgetting what it _really_ looked like, having grown used to the mask that hid it. Her fingers lifted, sinking beneath his hood. He held his breath, shoulders stiffening, drawing his head back a fraction and regarding her curiously. Moistening his lips, he glanced to her hand, tensing further. "It frightens _me_," he responded quietly, his voice no more than a breath. He remained motionless, frozen, as her fingers touched the smooth porcelain.

The unmistakable strain in his voice gave her pause. Would she have done it if not for that? Erik would never know, for just as slowly as her fingers had curled, they gave a warm caress to the smooth porcelain contours before dropping away. "I'm sorry." _For lifting the mask in the first place, and for asking to again just now... And perhaps a million other things._

Before her hand drifted too far, his cold fingers clasped loosely around her wrist. Raising her hand, he reached up and took a hold of the cowl's edge. Easing it back from his head, he pressed her fingers loosely to the mask, slowly releasing her wrist and lowering his hand to his side. Silent, he kept his eyes on hers. _Please. Please, take it off. Take it and accept me for who I am. A man... not a monster._

Closing her eyes, she felt the press of tears. Opening them again, they met Erik's, searchingly, reading every bit of tired loneliness in his heavy gaze. Hardly knowing if she could do it or not, with or without being horrified by what lay behind it, her fingers trembled at the curve of his masked cheek. Yet she did nothing, neither moving to take it off or move her hand away. For long moments of silence as snow gathered on their still shoulders, her fingers remained tenderly curled on the white porcelain in the very place Erik had pressed them.

It felt like an eternity - no, much longer than that - that they stood there, looking upon each other, her eyes filling with tears and his own heavily weighted, tempestuous with emotions that startled her. Fear was one of them. He had any number of things to be afraid of; mostly, her rejection. Often he wondered just _why._.. Why had this woman changed his life, turned it upside-down and right-side in, without any sign of it straightening? He saw in her something he'd never had in his own life: innocence, and peace. Unable to break the silence, he shifted his weight, trying to rid himself of the burning tension, his hands curling loosely at his sides.

This was the change in him that had her worried. The torrent of emotions was too great for him to fully sort them out. She wanted nothing more than to pull the mask away as if it didn't matter. He was just a man, like any other man in the world - but she couldn't. What frightened her was not what lay beneath the mask, but what might happen between them if she could look upon his face without fear. _What else could happen that hasn't already, Christine?_

"Oh, Erik..." came the familiar whisper when she couldn't find the right words. Carefully, her fingers curled tighter, bravely pulling at his mask, but she just couldn't do it. It made her very breath catch to think of it, her heartbeat rising. It wasn't his face, and she wanted to tell him that, but she couldn't form the right words.

The anticipation was nearly killing at him, eating at every fiber of his patience, but he didn't rush her. He didn't even consider doing so. The uneasiness settled deeper, to the marrow of his bones. He dampened his lower lip again, absently, a bit of the deformed upper slipping briefly into view. Though nearly rigid with anxiety, he was also simply curious what she would do. Would she remove the mask, or walk away - proving that she was unable to look upon his face without being disgusted? Drawing in a gentle breath, he released it with a close of his eyes. Cracking them open again, he brought his dull amber gaze to her face, scanning over it before meeting her eyes again. There had been little to no change in the myriad feelings warring within him, leaving him conflicted, confused, and frustrated.

"Could _he_ ever give you what I have?" His voice was unexpected, and her fingers flinched lightly against his masked cheek. Her eyes fell to her hand, then lifted again to his as she bit gently at her lower lip. "Could he ever make fantasy become reality?" Breaking his statuesque stance, he stepped closer, the intensity of his gaze pressing her back. Raising a hand, there was only a slight hesitation before he brushed his fingers against her cheek, passing it along the curve of her jaw. Her breath shuddered gently, and she found her body betraying her as her chin lifted, giving him more skin to caress; to her disappointment, his touch went no further than just beneath her ear. "Could he ever give you all that you desired and more?" So soft, the words were almost nonexistent as they drifted upon the soft breeze that surrounded him. "Erik, ple--" She broke off with a soft intake of air as her back met the unyielding surface of a tree. Had she been backing up this whole time? So caught within his gaze, in his words, she hadn't noticed.

"Why can you not love me, like you do him?" _Like I do you..._

Christine wasn't prepared for the wave of feeling that burst through her chest, spreading to her throat, choking it with tears; a pain that was almost tangible, and so raw that she could taste it, salty and stinging against her tongue. The white of the mask lay mockingly beneath her fingertips, glowing through the glistening layer of tears in her eyes. Raising his hand, he cupped his fingers against the back of hers, easing the tips toward the edge of the smooth porcelain until they dipped just beneath, barely grazing along the distorted skin. He stopped her hand there. She wished that he would have taken her further, for she still did not have the strength to remove the mask herself. As his hand lowered, she caressed the covered curve of his cheek with her thumb before her fingers fell away altogether.

"I can't," she mouthed gently, removing her eyes from his. Her hands lifted, clutching before her breast so tightly that her knuckles were white beneath her gloves. _I can't remove the mask? Can't love him?_, she questioned herself, breathing in deeply to get rid of the ache in her lungs. Her eyes closed, sparing her seeing the agonized pain that flashed within his before they too were shut. He stepped away from her, taking a moment to compose himself, allowing her to breathe more easily. Both hands remained at her breast, right above her rapidly beating heart, as she turned to watch him move silently past. Trembling, she couldn't take her eyes off of him. It was like observing a fire started by your own hands; watching it burn out of control, consuming the thing you most treasure. She couldn't look away, and yet he wouldn't look back at her. She bit her lip to hold back the treacherous tears, yet still they spilled over her cheeks. Why did a face matter so much? She knew she couldn't still be afraid of it, for it was only a face. Scarred and defiled, but still just a face. He was a _man_ underneath that mask, but she couldn't bring herself to see that.

Just how could a person be so drowned by misery and consumed by anger at the same time? It was a delicate balance, but he managed to pull it off well enough that neither predominated - if either showed at all. Through it all, he felt just so very... numb. Tired. Would anyone ever be able to view him without disgust? By God, all he _wanted_ was to be needed by someone - and _not_ just because he enthralled them, or that he was training their voice. He drew closer to the wood, pausing near a tree. He placed his hand against its surface, resting his shoulder upon the cold bark. Silently he looked out at the distance, trying to regain the sense of peace he had so often experienced here. He dragged in a slow breath, its release bringing a light mist billowing about the front of the cowl.

Frowning heavily, Christine slowly drew slightly closer to him, stopping some distance away. With every silent step she took in a quick breath, followed by a nervous swallow. Unable to bring herself even to apologize - for what could she possibly say - she watched his back draw tight, his anguished breathing seeming flushed right out of his angry, miserable soul. Covering her mouth, she continued her slow walk towards him, not wanting to break his silent reverie - but also needing to hear him say something to reassure her that she hadn't done what she feared she had. Would he cease coming for her after this? Would he never sing for her, or she for him? She felt her soul would surely die without him.

The hood shifted faintly, turning as he heard the soft crunch of the snow with her approach. Looking forward again, he absently watched a droplet of water slide down the side of an icy pillar before being finally released to fall towards the snow. "You are ready to go?" His chin tipped up, allowing the cool breeze to flow against his face. Lowering his free hand he clasped it against the side of his cloak, gathering the hem loosely and pulling it around himself. Sliding his hand from the tree, he shifted towards her, resting his back against the frozen bark.

The change in him amazed her. His shoulders straightened, and he rose up to his full height. Even his eyes seemed to hold no trace of anger - though perhaps that was because she dropped her gaze guiltily as his fell upon her. Other emotions wrote themselves on top of the guilt; misery, sadness, pity, anger at her own naivete. He was no monster. Magician, singer, artist, musician, genius, _yes_... but not a monster. Unable to draw her voice from her throat, she simply nodded.

"We will come again. Perhaps you will be able to see more than just fairies. I believe I saw a unicorn once, white as freshly fallen snow." Pressing away from the tree, he started up the path. Adjusting the cowl, shielding his face completely, he dropped his hands, crossing his arms loosely over his stomach. He was used to wearing masks; this was just one of many. He didn't want her to see him in anguish, and did not want her pity.

She followed him with another silent nod. She took little happiness from his assurance that they would return. Even the memory of the fairies and their dancing song couldn't bring a smile to her pale lips. It didn't matter that he hid his pain from her; she could feel it. Even as well hidden as he tried to keep it, it wrapped itself firmly around her innocent heart. Drawing her hood up, she toyed with the fingers of her gloves as they walked in silence.

Perhaps because he was deep in thought, the walk back seemed to take longer for him than the journey in. No words passed between them, no more prancing fairies or frolicking nymphs. All was dull and dreary. When they reached the carriage, he lifted a hand and unlatched both the door and the stairs with a scraping rake of metal to metal. Standing along its side, he lifted his hand to help her into the cab. Glancing away and over the grounds, he took in the innocent sight of the park. _One day I will savor its surroundings in daylight._ Perhaps it wasn't the truth, but even a creature of the darkness such as he could dream. Turning his head again, with his back towards the brightness of the moon, his shadow turned to look in her direction.

Her fingers slipped into his easily. Her eyes followed his gaze for a moment, leaving her fingers in his palm, trying to see what he saw. To her, it was the park, any park; it might have been anywhere. But Erik... what did _he_ see in such a world of darkness? She lifted her eyes to his, meeting them before stepping up into the carriage.

He climbed in behind her, pulling up the stairs and shutting the door as he brought himself to rest upon the cushioned bench. "Back to your post, Monsieur," he called out gently to the driver, who, after working heat back into his limbs, snapped the reins to start the horses off. As the carriage made its rocking way down the cobbled streets, Erik maintained his silence while watching the snow-covered landscape, observing her from the corner of his eye. He could not know how sorely confused she felt, how conflicted. If only she would speak her mind more clearly; her 'Oh, Eriks' could only say so much, and left him acutely at a loss.

Christine laid her head back and closed her eyes, the jostle of the carriage swaying her tired body to and fro. Every few seconds she forced her eyes to open, looking upon the ceiling or out the window until she couldn't keep them open any longer. She was up far later than she was accustomed, and after a day like this, was nearly overcome with fatigue, mental and emotional as well as physical.


	13. Condemning Redemption

The slow rocking pattern of the brougham drew Christine into a deep slumber, and after watching her rest for a few moments, Erik's eyes traveled to the window not too far from her. Quietly he watched the passing scenery as he let his mind travel. Reflecting. It was only the night prior, yet the memory seemed like an eternity ago.

_It had become a habit for him, the rubbing of his masked face against his arm. Stemmed from his youth in an ill attempt to soothe the sting from his mother's smack or the raw press of the uncomfortable mask. There had been a pause within the story, exhaustion taking its toll upon the both of them, regardless of the tea they had consumed earlier. She laid near, close enough where he could feel the gentle brush of her skirts along his elbow. Laid comfortably upon his stomach he cracked his eyes open and followed the length of expensive cloth. A powder blue so pale that it was almost white, it did well to bring out the shade of her hair and eyes, exactly the reason why it had been made. "You like what I have purchased you?" The answer was obvious: she wouldn't be wearing the dress if she didn't enjoy how it looked and felt upon her. _

_The tipping of his head brought a few false, stray strands to cascade against a bare temple, drawing her attention and urging back the bit of leeriness that laid within her breast, and she eased closer, one delicate hand raising to hover just above the strands. The nearing of her fingers lured his eyes to a close, and he exhaled a pent breath when the hairs shifted, and along with them came the gentle caress of warmth over the curve of his earlobe. Her fingers were trembling, he could feel it, and see it once he had opened his eyes to focus upon her arm. Following its length to her face, he studied her quietly, only to close the eccentric gaze once again. "Yes," she finally stated, the word drawing to a whisper as he tipped his head kittenishly toward her hand. His half-concealed face held no expression, though inside he was willing her hand to travel further. "Would... Would you like some tea, Erik?" She glanced to the pot that he had settled nearby, then lowered her eyes to him again as he shifted._

_The urge to take her hand and place it to his skin was strong, and while it was one of his greatest desires, it was also one of his fears. Such conflicting things. He had heard her question, but he didn't answer it, not right away. His mind was off on another tangent and finally... the question came to his lips. "Do I repulse you, Christine? Do you fear me?" Cracking open his eyes, the dulled amber gaze settled upon her, studying her quietly. It was a sudden leap, asking something like that, mostly because he wouldn't know if she was lying or not. There were times where he could catch the tales, but when she was already shaken, it made things difficult._

_His words had caught her off guard so much that she nearly dropped the tea cup that she had gathered. Managing to settle her fingers, her eyes were on his in an instant, watering but not tearing as badly as the other times they had had similar confrontations of their emotions. They unnerved her, those simple questions. Either way she answered would she be judged? Of this she had a certain feeling. She almost thought it would be better to say nothing, but he was waiting for an answer, though it seemed an eternity before the words came out. "I am not afraid of you, Erik." Her voice was as steady as she could manage to make it. "Nor do you repulse me... You've been nothing but good to me; how could you ask that without knowing my answer?"  
__  
"Then why... Do you shy away from my touch?" That was the tougher question. He almost didn't want to say it, but it was going to plague him for the rest of the night if he didn't. At least it was a step... he could have very well followed his pattern and brooded without asking the meaning behind her actions. Tucking his arms beneath the width of the pillow, he adjusted its lay, bunching it up toward the center, hugging it to the upper portion of his chest and neck. He kept his eyes upon her face, studying its expression, her eyes as well. Moistening his lips, he exhaled gently, preparing himself for the answer that was to come as she lowered her tear-filled gaze from his. This was too much. More emotion than she was used to dealing with in this manner, too many conflicting thoughts and feelings. How could she begin to answer? Tilting her face away, she closed her eyes. "I don't know what answer to give," came her murmur a few moments later, trembling off of her timid lips._

_  
"Any answer is better than none." For a moment it felt as if his heart had traveled further down into his stomach, threatening to land somewhere around his ankles. While he was persistent, he wasn't overly so. If it truly bothered her, more than she'd be able to handle, he'd drop the questioning and simply...fester. It just didn't make any sense. She said that he didn't repulse her, and that she didn't fear him, yet she couldn't bring herself to accept anything beyond the most necessary of contacts, or brush her own fingertips against his skin. He loathed to think of the final reason, but it flickered to his mind: Raoul. It had to be because of him. Did they rekindle their little past love so much that she'd feel guilt just from touching another man, even in an innocent caress?  
__  
But, alas. If it had been easy enough to caress Erik innocently, she might have done so by now. But no touch felt innocent with him. Perhaps it was his own caution in touching her that influenced her behavior towards touching him in return. Then again, it could simply be the fear of his face that kept her in place, and that was more difficult to explain to him, for she didn't want to hurt him. More than she possibly had already. Her cheeks were quite pale as she drew her eyes to him once again, trying to read his expressions. What did she mean to him? "I don't know, Erik," she breathed, wetting her dry lips as her gaze shifted just faintly to the cheek she couldn't a moment ago bear to touch. "You always hesitate... I don't know what you want or don't – you confuse me." Her eyes were filling at this breathed confession, though every word was true. "You want me to...?" She could barely ask it._

_Looking up at her, he weighed his answer carefully. What would she say if he told her? Would she laugh, maybe think that he was mad? Or would he tell her, get his hopes high again, only for them to be shot out of the air? Another dampening of his lips and he slowly nodded. "I...do, yes. I..." trailing off, his articulate nature just took a nose dive into stuttering. "I ... have never known a kind touch." The moment the words slipped from his mouth, he regretted them. It would be pity that drove her actions now, he knew it. Swallowing gently to wet his throat, he closed his eyes again and curled his fingers against the edge of the pillow._

_At those words, pressure seemed to unwind from Christine, fear melting into pity so easily, every emotion so intertwined with the next. Reaching out, it only took a moment before her fingertips began to touch the curve of his cheek, curling them so delicately so that her thumb rested a mere inch from his lips. If it was only a "kind touch" he wanted from her, it was easier to give than a loving caress. And the mere fact that he said aloud he wanted it was the largest part of the reason she did it. Even still, her touch was light, gaze studying him with those large, tear-filled eyes. "Never?" came her soft echo, sadness filling her tight throat.  
__  
Though it was borne out of pity, he didn't shun it, but leaned into the touch of her fingertips against his cheek. Another swallow, this time to get rid of the harsh knot that suddenly had formed its way into his throat, he slid a hand from beneath the pillow to hover just over the back of her hand and her pity nearly overwhelmed her. Then he laid his palm down; cool skin against her warmer, urging the press of her fingers to become more than feather light. Her question was answered with a soft shaking of his head. "Not until now," he finally responded almost a full minute later. She leaned close, her lips quivering with the emotions wracking her soul. She couldn't bring herself to speak. Erik looked incredibly small then, as if it was not he who had ensnared her with his music and held her captive but she him. She made no movement for what seemed a few eternally long minutes, before her free hand moved forward to press gently over his hand. And the saddest of smiles bloomed on her lips. As if to tell him that if she could erase his pain, she would do so.  
__  
He remembered the feel of their twined fingers from the night prior; the reflection evoked by the sandwiching of his hand between her own. Curling his fingers he partially tucked them beneath her palm and closed his eyes against the overwhelming wash of pain and joy at the same time. If only she had touched him before he said anything of knowing no kindness. Then perhaps she would be doing it for the simple need of wanting to, instead of being driven by her emotions. His heavy exhale blanketed against the smooth underside of her wrist, and turning his head, his cheek grazed along her fingertips and most of her hand that wasn't shielded by his own. By the way he held it, it was as if he thought she'd pull away and he'd never have this chance again._

_It was terrible, the way her heart yearned for him at that moment. If only to ease such lifelong pain of not knowing what it was to be touched; she would have given herself to him for pity alone. But was it pity that led her to stay as she was, unmoving and quite willingly touching him? Was it pity that moved her heart so that it seemed to tremble in her chest? Pity that brought those tears to her eyes? That brought her other hand to his just a moment ago? Leaning in, her thumb gave a tender stroke against the rise of his cheek. Her head tipped to the side to watch the emotions pass over his face. "What has the world done to you? Is this how your life has been?", she breathed, her very voice trembling._

_The questions brought the oddest response. He began laughing; a gentle giving that held all the bitterness of the world. They also brought the sting of tears within his eyes and he turned his head away, resting his brow against the pillow below. Her hands were now trapped more than before, but only because that turn brought them between his cheek and the silken feel of the pillow. Dragging in a slow breath he shook his head. "Darkness, Christine. Utterly and incomprehensible darkness. So much that it frightens me." His shoulders shook faintly; more laughter? Sobbing? There was no sound to tell. "Oh Christine, you are barely scraping the surface of what I am. _Who _I am and what I am capable of."_

"Erik..?"

Refocusing upon the present, he turned his head slowly to look over toward her. The moonlight that snuck its way within the carriage was bright within her gentle eyes, and for a moment he had forgotten that she had stated his name in question. She wanted something. "Mm?" Glancing away from him she looked out of the window briefly and returned her eyes to him again, a soft smile upon her lips. "We are here." If it hadn't been for the jarring of the carriage to a stop she wouldn't have woke, but she was a bit curious as to where he was. He might have been sitting but a few feet away from her, but his mind was a million miles away. It was a habit with him, she'd noticed. During times of utmost silence, she often caught him staring off into blank space, his amber-hued eyes focused upon some point that only he could see. He had that very same look just before she'd stated his name. Three times.

He glanced out the window noticing that they were, indeed, down the street from the opera house, and not too far from her home. "So we are." And yet they didn't move. The brougham shifted. The driver, becoming restless, wrapped his blanket around him, shielding him from the cool of the air as well as the new wave of light flakes that fell from the sky. He mumbled faintly beneath his breath, yet the two within didn't pay him any mind. So much had happened within this night; things that should have had Christine running, yet later...falling so completely into him that she would simply forget the Vicomte. Neither happened, though, doing nothing but confusing him further. Her as well. The silence weighed heavily within the carriage, and neither of them did anything to break it. Gloved fingers curled slowly within the dark cloth of his cloak, crinkling the heavy velvet and silk as he forced himself to refrain from pressing back the taunting, coiled lock at the side of her face. Perching precariously against her cheek, it practically pleaded for him to move it. For a moment he had believed she had predicted his urge, and her hand swept up to press it back along her ear.

"Thank you for taking me to the park, Erik," she finally stated, and he nearly breathed out a sigh. How could something so simple as his name sound like a prayer upon her lips? Perhaps he was becoming soft as that little cynical voice always reminded him. A man who had thought of, and accomplished, murder without so much as hesitation or guilt now waited on bated breath for her mere glance. What need had he for that bloodlust to return around her? She was a soothing balm to his wounds even if, in the same breath, she was the one that tore asunder the tender flesh of his heart. He nodded faintly, and turning his head he leaned closer to the door for his fingers to slip into the handle. The press of it was paused by her soft touch resting upon his wrist. "Wait..." Raising a brow beneath the porcelain, he brought his eyes to her again at both the gesture and the word. _Wait? For?_, the quizzical gaze seemed to say, but she didn't explain herself immediately. Instead, she leaned back again, gathering the cloth of her dress to knead at it, making wrinkles into the layer of silk lace and cotton.

Could he hear the strength of her heart and its rapid beat? She was sure that the driver would be able to, for it resounded loudly within her own ears, and after a slow breath she rose her eyes to his. The moment they met, a light chill ran up the length of her spine. Intense wasn't the word for the regard he held upon her. Searing, yet coolly indifferent at the same time. He was a confusing man, and this thought alone evoked a light smile across her lips, which did nothing but make him more curious than he already was. Shaking her head gently, she pressed her palm against the bench seat and scooted closer to him until their legs were almost meeting. She looked so small at his side, and it was times such as this where she felt so insignificant in his presence. Did he have any idea of just how intimidating he was? How majestic and magnetic? Raising her hand, his eyes were attracted to it, and as he had done before, he watched it silently as she touched the hem of his cloak's hood, then drifted past it to ease the cloth back off of his head.

"Lean down?" Touching the rough surface of his jaw she was unaware of his tensing beneath the layers of ebony cloth, but fully aware of the odd look he was giving her. She only smiled and nodded gently to him, urging him to comply. Pulling his hand from the door finally, he placed it upon his lap and hunched his shoulders, bringing him down a few inches at a time until she had lifted her hand to rest her fingers at the top edge of his mask, and his breath was abruptly held. Infinity could have passed as they both sat there, her fingers partly tucked against the lip of the porcelain, and him leaning within a slightly uncomfortable position, though he didn't seem to notice at the time. The only thing he noticed was how dangerously close she was, and the warm feel of her touch through her gloves against the surface of his cheek and brow. He then felt the strap press against the back of his head, tighter than usual, and a cool rush of air drift along once covered flesh. By the time he had realized that she had eased the mask from his forehead, the chill of the sneaking breeze was replaced with a warmth; her lips. Tenderly they pressed against the skin, bisecting distorted and smooth alike, and he closed his eyes, swallowing back the painfully tight, burning knot in his throat.

It made no sense; only an hour ago she had been terrified to remove the mask, or to even lay such a touch upon him, yet she was there, close enough where he could feel the gentle warmth of her body, and the searing press of her mouth. There was no explanation within her actions, she couldn't come up with one even if she had desired to. It simply seemed...like the thing to do. He had been so kind to her, neglected of a kind touch beyond the one she had bestowed days ago. Her heart wrenched at the shuddered sigh he released against her chin as the tension eased from his form and he lightly pressed his brow closer to her lips. It was but a few moments, all too fleeting and simultaneously felt as if it had lasted a lifetime. Easing back from the condemning kiss, her cheeks flushed, she lightly fumbled with the hood to replace it the way it had been found. A silly gesture, but it was something to keep her occupied while mentally beating down the flutter of butterflies within the pit of her stomach. He was stone still, his eyes closed until his face was shadowed by the confines of the hood. Tentative her smile, she nodded gently, kneading her dress again between her slender fingers. "I am ready now."

Realizing that she had stated something to him, he returned the nod, barely bringing movement to the hood, then turning he took a hold of the handle to press the door open. He reached down next, gathering the latch of the stairs to have them fall free with a _shick _of metal to metal. Though he might have assisted her out as he had done before, he wished not to be seen before the house, and she knew this. Raising from her seat she eased by him to step down the stairs, and once her boots crunched within the snow covered cobbles, she glanced back into the carriage. If it hadn't been for the glaring white of his mask he would have vanished completely from sight. "Good night, Erik," she whispered quietly, quite sure that his keen ears would pick up her soft voice. Her thought was proven correct when his ethereal voice slipped from the confines of the brougham. "Good night, Christine." Pulling up the steps, he closed the door afterwards and leaned back among the cushions of the carriage then lifted his hand to brush his fingers against his brow, savoring the last lingering sensation of her lips.

"Where to, Monsieur?", he heard, and glanced to the wall before him where the driver was seated upon the other side. He could have exited the carriage here and walked back to the secret entrance, but his thoughts were changed. He no longer wished to return to that underground world. Not at the moment. He had felt the fresh air upon his face and wanted more to indulge within that rarely felt pleasure. The crisp air as it filled his lungs within the park was a reviving feeling. The nighttime was beautiful; the moon's light brought a glint to every bit of hanging ice. Now, if only he could recall what it looked like during the day...

"Bois de Boulogne." Though they had just come from there, the driver said nothing and snapped the horses to attention and with a sharp jarring trot, they started off to their next destination. Lowering his hand to his lap, he closed his eyes, reliving that sole memory time and time again, settling it firmly to his mind. It had to mean something, didn't it? While such a gesture may be simple for others, it wasn't for him. It meant more than she could possibly ever fathom. It, alone, mended the fractures that she had placed there with her prior rejection, strengthening his love for her; his desire and yearning. She could so easily destroy him with a single word, and yet he could not rid the woman from his mind, could not erase her face from his dreams. He was enslaved by the young woman. Shackled, and they were invisible chains he did not wish to slough off. Ever.

He was hers; wholly and completely.

And come heaven or hell, she _will _be his.

_Fin_

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Yes, that's it, Ladies and Gents. There's not going to be any more chapters, no sequel. This :Cough: small fic was inspired by a section in a much larger, especially the walk through the forest.

If you wish to read the "sequel" might I suggestyou read **Amor Vincit Omnia**? It's a rewrite that combines elements from the books (Leroux/Susan Kay) the movies (random) and the musicals(ALW, Ken Hill). It takes a deeper look into the thoughts and feelings of the characters.


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